Life With A Werewolf

Christmas Traditions

          Sometimes, my mind runs away with me. I and Crash were standing in the kitchen in the morning. He was in human form, drinking a cup of coffee. Light filtered in, the early morning light that feels as reluctant to be up as we humans are at such an early hour - especially during winter. Breakfast was made and eaten in its usual fashion: I did some eggs, and Crash did his thing he does occasionally with the bread and bacon. He fried the bacon next to me, then used some of the grease left over to fry the bread.
         The scents still hung in the air as the coffee was doing its job of arousing our senses and wills. That was when I'd broached the subject. "So, what do werewolves do differently around Christmastime?"
         Crash shrugged. "Trim the tree with entrails and blood. We meet..."
          "Very funny," I interrupted him. He laughed and shook his head, taking a sip while I continued. "What does your species do differently? For real."
         The images that I had were, well, different to say the least. I'd imagined a werewolf family going north and building a hunting bunker out of snow, then going to take on the biggest game they could, the only game that could challenge them - polar bears and moose. But, as usual, my active imagination had it wrong. I had developed a story about a family of werewolves trying to survive such a trip after one of the polar bears starts going after them instead, and they get injured. It was turning into a Cormac McCarthy type story about the brutality of life in general. But my imagination was quite a ways off base.
         "Not a lot, to tell you the truth. We're living with you humans cause we want what you have. We want a peaceful life in a nice neighborhood with pleasant neighbors who are friends. With cars in the driveway and children playing in the backyard. A lot of our traditions are yours."
         "So the tree?"
         "That was a werewolf tradition at first. We wanted to put something in your home that smelled like us, so we'd go out at night and mark a tree, then convince you to put it up in your homes. Kept the vampires and the trolls away." Crash took another sip, an extended one. I couldn't tell if it was to hide a smirk, or not. I still think he was hiding one. He's kidding right? Of course, he's got to be kidding.
         "So, besides operation stinky tree, what other traditions do you guys have?"
         Crash gave a soft chuckle and shrugged. "My family does a hunt. Well, we used to, but as my parents get older it's harder for them. So, I do the hunt. But I tend to stream it for them so they can watch it live and talk to me."
         "So werewolves hunt?"
         "No, not all werewolves." He set his cup aside, and looked down as if lost in thought a moment. "Some do. We do. But others don't like hunting much. Had a friend who insisted on baking. She was crazy, even for a werewolf. She'd shift, then bake a sheet cake or a dozen different kinds of cookies. Said she'd rather bake than kill."
         That threw me for a loop. I looked at him for a moment, then asked the obvious question. "How much fur?"
         He laughed. I wouldn't let it go. "I'm serious, how much fur in the baking?"
         "Let's just say it was extra fiber."
         Just when you think that you know everything about someone. Those Christmas traditions, they're special in their own way. We all have them. Watching Charlie Brown and Garfield, that claymation special with the California Raisins in them. Attending that one church that does the fantastic Christmas pageant. Watching our children put their own Christmas pageant on.
         It's strange to think that werewolves and other mythical kind do these things as well. They watch the same specials, attend the same services, go to the same pageants. But there's not one special tradition for them. Have they been integrated into our society so long they no longer have their own? Have they always been with us? These are anthropologist questions that I'm not certain will ever be answered.
          Crash picked up a dish and brought it to the sink. As he prepared to wash a load he said, "Of course there's the annual howling at the moon. We all have to get out and do that."
         Which I smiled at, because I knew he was kidding. In the reflective surface of the window above the sink, I swore I saw that smile, so I know for certain he was kidding. Had to be kidding, right?