It’s official, Mibbet thought to herself, humans make a celebration out of anything. “Can’t blame them on this one,” Rosalind commented “dungeons unchecked are known to overrun towns, villages, cities, and kingdoms. To put it in a context you’d understand Dungeons are to humans what living next door to an owl nest would mean to you.”

“Owls” Mibbet hissed, gripping Choppy hard enough the handle creaked in protest. “Now I understand the celebration, all dungeons must be purged.”

Even so she could not help thinking that the scale of things was slightly overkill. There was a feast, music, and from somewhere somebody had managed to dredge up the dreadful abomination known only as a clown. Mibbet knew there was a human under all that greasepaint somewhere, at least in theory. But even so the dreadful creature had trapped several animals into a balloon form (Rosalind tried everything in her power explaining to her that that wasn’t what a balloon animal was, but you know, Mibbet.) and that flower it wore looked extremely suspicious. She did not like or trust it, nothing should be smiling that much, not to mention there was a whole other face underneath. Who (apart from politicians of course)could possibly have a use for two faces? And how the hell were you supposed to tell what was going through its mind? That and the trousers, was it that hard to find trousers, and shoes for that matter that fit? She was a freaking FROG, a species seldom known for their apparel (unless you count the tututoad of tonga, but that was a toad, an people were more often interested in it having a talent for ballet anyway. The most common theory was a wizard did it. Bloody wizards.)

On the plus side the food featured no gentrified slugs, and wasn’t trying to make her into a cannibal. (She was really not sure if cannibalism counts after a sqwoomph related thaumatological transformation that grants two thumbs, but she was in no hurry to figure it out.) There was of course a soggy salad (there always is *sighs* there always is) and assorted other culinary “delights”. Then Mibbet’s world was rocked, as a covered platter was presented, and for the first time in history a frog with human taste buds was introduced to the chocolate cake.

Mibbet almost then and there forsook the froggy form in favour of fondant fancies. Her world melting away replaced with an almighty yum. There was good, there was great, and then there was whatever the hell this was, and whatever the hell it was Mibbet was here for it.

“It’s just chocolate, I don’t see what all the fuss is about” Rosalind griped, with the immense sense of privilege granted only to those who can eat such things whenever they liked. So Mibbet flashed through her head the complete non digest taste tableaux that was a froggy diet, Including everything including the gory details, and a detailed taste sample of the time she got hungry enough to eat SLUG (she still shuddered at the thought to this day and that happened two whole hibernation’s ago.

“OK ok I see your point” Rosalind replied grudgingly (she never was much of a fan of conceding the point but in this case she was willing to make an exception, sort of, possibly, maybe.) “Just never, ever, ever share the taste of slugs with me again and again I reiterate EVER. That taste is going to be in my head for weeks, and don’t even get me started on the texture.”

Mibbet regretted providing contexture in the circumstances, ambush slug tasting seemed like a rather cruel way to win an argument, but Rosalind didn’t seem to quite get how lucky she was, and it was up to Mibbet to make sure she understood even if it meant after she got her own body back ending up on the menu.

************************************************************************

Errol was suspicious (not he himself of course, he was far too much of a cinnamon roll for that, but rather he was suspicious about somebody else.) Where the hell had the cat managed to get hold of a giant cat bed? Let alone a fire proof one that somehow remained squishy, also why was half the town’s grass suddenly replaced by catnip, and even silvervine. Also what the hell were nightmaries, and how had the cat managed to get his claws on them?

Around the town assembled cats were in various states of blissed out, in flower beds where the roses had vanished, to be replaced by nip. (In years to come the sheer amount of catnip produced in this region would make for a major new trade within the kingdom. After all the place had a lot of cats, and twice as many humans who loved to pamper them, though other cats were working extremely hard to resolve said imbalance.) The residents of Podunk examined the catastrophic carnage, and started to get ideas. The local inn took in a number of strays, and rebranded as “the nip inn” . Which soon became a staple for travellers passing through the area who wished to unwind after a long and tiring time spent on the road (there wasn’t much else surrounding Podunk but road, oh and trees, many many many many trees.)

But enough about that, Errol was determined to solve this particular mystery, so he was keeping an eye on Rascal. Who as is traditional for cats being observed to see what they do was doing absolutely nothing with Malice aforethought, and smugness/amusement as his default setting. He had produced nothing new for several hours, while Errol followed him, through a daily routine of self grooming,using the poopbox (the only bit Errol didn’t observe, he was too busy fleeing the sulphurous stench as fast as he could.) Chasing a squirell through a tree (it was intended to be up a tree but as you have no doubt observed Rascal was not exactly the itty bittiest of kitties. That and trees are distinctly flammable.) Errol hung in through it all, before giving up in disgust. Not even noticing Rascal spawning a new toy as he stormed off.