Adorable Like a Werekitten, Part 8

   True to the plan, business boomed at the Mystery Shack—especially after the news of the unsuccessful Bigfoot hunt spread. It didn't need an edition of The Gossiper (though it did, of course, receive one that evening under the headline, "Kraft Real Mayo Thief Still A(big)foot"—the second article was headlined, "Mayor Northwest Repeats Campaign Promise to Bring Kraft Real Mayo, Jobs Here"); everyone was already talking, and everyone wanted to hear what the self-proclaimed expert on all things mysterious and paranormal had to say.
   "This is great!" Stan exalted during a brief lull. "We're booked—booked!—clear to next week! I didn't even know we had a schedule book!"
   "We don't," Wendy pointed out indifferently as she turned a page of her magazine.
   "Right. Soos, go buy us a schedule book," he ordered. "Something cheap. Nothing fancy."
   Soos glanced to Norman and Mabel, who shrugged in response. "Right away, Mr. Pines."
   "Now kids, I need you to—wait a minute, we're still missing one."
   "Dipper . . . isn't feeling so great," Mabel said truthfully. "He's lying down somewhere."
   "Then it'll have to be you two, Mabel Syrup and Paintbrush. Run and get the shelves restocked, would you? The merchandise is selling like hotcakes, and some is nearly out. I'll be gouged clean through if we don't take every chance to gouge these suckers clean through."
   They complied mechanically and without enthusiasm for want of anything else better to do. Physical labor might have helped them at that time; it occupied their minds and prevented them from sinking deeper and deeper into their anxieties for Dipper. It wasn't fun, however, and not even Mabel could turn it into a game at that time. When they had finished, they sat behind the register with Wendy.
   "What's got you guys so down?"
   "Um . . . worried about Dipper," Norman admitted truthfully.
   "Not too serious is it? He seemed a little . . . twitchy earlier this morning . . ."
   "I'm . . . sure it will pass . . . once the moon starts waxing," Norman added in a bitter undertone.
   Wendy was about to inquire further when three precise knocks interrupted them.
   Stan, with his fez neatly adjusted and an ingratiating smile, threw open the door in welcome. The Honorable Safarington Pithelmet and his peers were waiting on the other side. "YOU!" Stan roared, and then caught himself, "must . . . be . . . my one o'clock appointment! Please come in, gentlemen!"
   "MmmThank you, indeed. MmmAre you the proprietor of this delightful little hovel?"
   "Indeed, I am. Welcome to the Mystery Shack!"
   "MmmWe seek an expert on 'the Bigfoot', and you come highly recommended."
   With an unctuous bow, Stan assured him, "All gleaned from years of careful study and research, and even carefuller observation. Now, if you'll be so good as to proceed to the register, we can take care of the entrance fees and various appointment tour surcharges first—heh heh—and then begin the tour."
   "MmmVery much obliged, I'm sure, but it is not the tour so much as your expertise on this singular issue that we require. MmmIf you would be so kind as to indulge us presently, we shall depart."
   "Certainly, but we have a strict Cancellation Surcharge policy," Stan replied firmly.
   "MmmOf course, and you shall receive equitable remuneration for your time."
   "Er . . . good?" Stan replied, though unsure about the word "remuneration".
   A careless order was given to the butler, "MmmDo see to it. MmmWhatever they ask."
   "Wendy," Stan shot quickly to her as she grudgingly straightened up, "please see to everything: the individual entrance fees, and the surcharges for a special appointment tour, last minute registration, cancellation, and two-souvenir-minimum waiver—heh heh . . . er, ahem, please excuse my cough, sirs. Now, how can I be of assistance?"
   "MmmEssentially, we wish to know how one kills 'the Bigfoot'. MmmWe are all quite convinced that the beast must be supernatural, for it still lives though we hunted it."
   Unimpressed, Stan offered, "Isn't it possible that Bigfoot was just too fast and wily for you? Couldn't you have just missed?"
   "MmmPoppycock! MmmWe are all agreed that we are the best shots in the world of hunting! MmmBesides, creatures more fleet of foot have fallen to us before now."
   "Right . . . Well, there are some (myself included) who believe that Bigfoot is a sacred creature of these lands, and so shouldn't be hunted."
   "MmmAlso poppycock."
   "Er, well . . . The native people of this valley, the . . . Puedam Tribe," Stan continued solemnly, "thought Bigfoot was the spirit of the forest. In fact, the last Medic Man (good friend before he died—shame about being the last Puedam) once said that shooting at Bigfoot was like shooting at a forest. Meaning that you'll never hit it. Can't hit it."
   On the other side of the register, Mabel sat up. She was listening very intently, and she nudged Norman with her elbow to make sure he was, too.
   "MmmI see . . . MmmAnd you believe this hokum-smokem superstition?"
   "Well, gentlemen, which is more likely? That you all somehow missed every shot earlier today, or that Bigfoot cannot be shot . . . for supernatural/spiritual reasons?" Stan submitted to them.
   Taken aback, the Honorable Safarington Pithelmet did not have an immediate answer. Eventually, he offered, "MmmIf the Bigfoot is like the Werewolf, it is impervious to normal bullets. MmmWe must have hit it, but the ammunition was ineffective. MmmHas your research not suggested any weaknesses akin to the silver bullet which fells the Werewolf?"
   Stan stared at him for a long, long moment. Finally, he replied slowly, "Nothing that can kill it . . . But my research does suggest that Bigfoot is partial to certain . . . substances . . ."
   "MmmEgads! MmmYou don't mean . . .  MmmOf course!"
   "Yes, exactly!" Stan said quickly, though not sure for what.
   "MmmIt's all so obvious, and we are complete boobies for not seeing it sooner! MmmThe food it stole—the sandwiches! MmmAnd it only appeared after the arrival of the sandwiches in the valley!"
   "Now you're getting it! Say it for everyone to hear!" Stan urged.
   "MmmKraft Real Mayo!"
   With a fixed smile, Stan nodded. "Yes. Exactly. You can't kill Bigfoot, but you can maybe use that as a lure, and then trap it. Obviously."
   "MmmWe are eternally grateful to you. MmmIt isn't much, but please accept this added monetary gratuity as a token of our thanks." And he offered a wad of cash to Stan.
   Dollar signs might well have appeared in Stan's eyes. "Don't mind if I do."
   Turning back to his peers, the Honorable Safarington Pithelmet called rousingly, "MmmGentlemen, we now know the weakness of the Bigfoot! MmmLet us now sally forth to trap it, for fame and glory and good sport! MmmAll in favor: fire your rifles in the air."
   "HeyheyHEY!" Stan broke in before they could do so. "Not in my Mystery Shack! You shoot it, you bought it!"
   "MmmHe is right; this is not some common hotel where one can fire willy-nilly into the air. MmmOur sincerest apologies," he offered with dignified contrition. "MmmNow, to procure the bait, then to trap the beast! MmmTallyho!"
   And with that the hunters charged out the door.
   Letting loose a long, slow sigh, Stan sunk against the register. "Well, that happened. So how much did we make off of that lot of rubes?"
   "About a hundred dollars a head," Wendy said breezily.
   Ca-ching! The cash register opened, and Stan collected all the money together to count it. Seldom had he looked happier. It was almost indecent.
   Mabel spoke up then. "That was pretty impressive, Gruncle Stan. So . . . did you make all that up just now, or is some of it true?"
   "Some from column A, and some from column B . . ." he answered absently.
   "I bet you really are the foremost expert on supernatural creatures, huh?"
   "I know a thing or two, Mabel Syrup . . ."
   "Do you know anything about . . . w-werethings?" Norman ventured timidly. "Like maybe how to c-cure one, for instance?"
   "A werething? Like a werewolf? Why?"
   "Oh, just innocent, childish, pretend, lark-game things," Mabel said innocently. "No real reason. Now," she became serious, "isn't it a silver bullet that cures a werething?"
   "No, that kills it. Because it's a bullet, and bullets kill everything," Stan said simply, dismissively. "And of course, if you're making bullets out of silver, you're going to take the time to aim. That's logic," he added obviously.
   "But then, what cures it?" Norman asked insistently.
   "I dunno. Probably something folksy and obvious when you think about it . . ."
   "Like what, exactly?"
   "Uh . . . take vampires," Stan chose at random. "They hate garlic. Why? Because they're from Transylvania, and Transylvanians hate garlic. That's why you never see Italian vampires. Simple as that."
   "So . . . What cures a werewolf?"
   "Oh . . . Probably have to make it fetch a stick from a sheep tree . . . Wolves like chasing sheep, so the wolf part will chase the stick right out of the person."
   "Sheep tree?" Mabel repeated skeptically. "Gruncle Stan, you just made that up."
   "Did not. You can look it up on the internet."
   "Then what do you do for a werecat? Hit it with a piece of dogwood because the cat part will run out of the person?"
   "What?!" Norman gaped incredulously.
   Now it was Stan's turn to sound skeptical, "Werecat? Uh . . . sure. That sounds good."
   "What?!" Norman repeated.
   "And maybe make them wear some dogwood flowers so that the cat part doesn't come back."
   "Sounds . . . plausible," Mabel conceded. "And it can't hurt, anyway. On a totally unrelated note, didn't you say once that those walking sticks over in the corner are made of dogwood?"
   Narrowing his eyes, Stan replied suspiciously, "Yeah . . ."
   "And that was the truth, right?"
   "Yeah . . ." Stan answered, wondering if his desire to finish counting the cash was greater than his current sense of unease.
   But Mabel was already scurrying away with a "Thanks, Gruncle Stan!"
   "No problem, kids. And if you need anything else, don't need anything else."
   But as Mabel pulled him across the shop, Norman protested quietly, "Hitting Dipper with sticks 'can't hurt'?! That sounds counterproductive and . . . frankly, medieval!"
   "If you've got any better ideas to cure my brother, I'd like to hear them!" she countered shortly. But before he could respond, she had thrust a walking stick into his chest and claimed another for herself. With that, she was bounding down the hall to the kitchen. A second later, she threw the cupboard open and announced, "Dipper! Good news! We found a cure! We just have to hit you with sticks until you're better!"
   "What?! Meabel, that sounds counter-productive and . . . frankly, meodieval," Dipper argued from his shadowy nook.
   "That's what I said!" Norman agreed.
   "Look, we only have to do it once," Mabel countered. "Gruncle Stan said this would cure you."
   "And yeou find that credible?"
   "Come on, Dipstick! We have to at least try!"
   Defiantly, Dipper rolled away from her. "I'm neot doing it, and yeou can't meake meow!"
   "Come on, Dipper! That's not you talking; that's the werecat in you."
   "Neo."
   "Fine," Mabel said stonily. "You leave us no choice." She reached in and seized him by the scruff.
   "Wha—Hey! Neo fair! Let meow go!" Dipper protested, struggling helplessly as she dragged him out. But for all his thrashing, she had him in a grip that no feline anywhere can break.
   Norman stood nearby, unable to watch—his head down and his eyes scrunched miserably shut. Clenched in his hands and clutched against his chest was the dogwood walking stick; he was wringing it in agitation. Practically folded in upon himself, he looked even paler than usual. In fact, he looked ill.
   Anyone would have found the sight of Norman pitiable, but werecats don't have a sense of pity. "Normeon, buddy . . ." Dipper appealed to his friend. "Y-yeou don't want to do this!"
   Shaking his head furiously, Norman croaked out, "N-no, I don't wanna do this . . ."
   "Then get thisss crazy she-beast off meow!"
   "B-but . . . if it'll cure you—if there's even a chance it'll cure you . . . then I guess I have to . . ." Norman continued throatily. He dared a quick look at Dipper, looking as though he might break down and cry at any minute. "I'm s-sorry . . ."
   "But . . . but this meakes no hisssense!" Dipper fizzled angrily.
   "Actually, it kinda does," Mabel retorted, maintaining her unbreakable grip on her brother. "What're the odds the guy writing the journal even thought of this? Or had a chance to try it?"
   "Hisssilence, traitor! Yeou have betrayed my tiny trust in yeou!"
   "She's right . . ." Norman agreed painfully, as if saying it cost him a vital organ.  "I'm s-sorry . . ." he repeated to Dipper. "We have to try . . . we have to try . . ."
   "Normeon?" Dipper asked nervously.
   Norman had gone quiet. With a visible, difficult effort, he began to unfold—to straighten up. Not shrinking into himself (as he usually did), now was one of those rare moments when it was so surprisingly obvious that he was tall. Half a head taller than Dipper and Mabel (not counting his hair).  He was no longer wringing the walking stick, though it was still clenched in his hands.
   "Ah . . ." he mouthed, then inhaled sharply. "Ahh . . ." he tried again, louder this time.
   "Norman?" Mabel asked uncertainly, for Norman seemed to be rocking back and forth.
   Norman suddenly forced eyes open, wide and wild! He roared, "AHHHH!" as he threw himself forward and swung!
   Involuntarily, Mabel released Dipper and jumped back! Dipper, his tail puffed up to twice its size and his pupils dilated by an adrenaline burst, dropped to all fours just ahead of the blow! He even felt the wind of it overhead! He lunged forward as Norman swung downward, then leapt onto the table as Mabel took a swing of her own right after it! Rounding on them with his back arched and his puffed tail sticking straight up in the air, he actually yowled at them!
   "AHHHH!" Norman continued to yell, the sheer force of it propelling him onward. Another swing followed, but Dipper surprised him by springing forward—over the stick and even over Norman! Landing, Dipper rolled past Mabel, and lunged at the backdoor! Before she could stop him, Dipper was out the door and hightailing it (literally)!
   "Not again!" Mabel fumed.
   Already following him, Norman shouted, "Don't let him get away!"
   This time, Dipper couldn't shake their pursuit or lose them in the woods! Norman stayed on his tail—sometimes almost in reach of it—and so prevented any chance to scramble up and into a tree! Mabel followed right behind! "Maybe . . . he'll go through . . . the catnip again . . ." she panted at one point. "And we can . . . grab him . . . while he's stoned . . ."
   And Dipper did, in fact, dash through a patch of wild catnip (followed immediately by Norman and Mabel), but it had no time to take an effect.
   The chase continued until they stumbled into the ravine, right up to the bank of the river itself! Dipper skidded frantically to a halt right before it, his arms pinwheeling to prevent tumbling in! He spun, and there were Norman and Mabel—huffing, but undeterred, and with the walking sticks still in hand!
   "G-guys . . . Let's neot do anything hasty neow . . ." he pleaded breathlessly.
   "The cat's already running . . . Just a few whacks'll make it run out of you . . ." Mabel insisted. "Whoa . . . That woulda sounded . . . much more hardboiled . . . if I wasn't so out of breath . . ."
   Before they could swing at him, Dipper turned and hurled himself onto the nearest cross rock! He nearly slipped into the river—in that moment, the idea of water was worse than the walking sticks—but he managed to catch his balance! Looking back, he saw Norman and Mabel following him, and so he hurled himself to the next one, and then the next one!
   "It's for your own good!" Mabel shouted right behind him.
   "I beg to differ!" he shouted back.
   The other side of the river—the other side of the shallow ravine! Dipper was scrambling up it, with Norman and Mabel stubbornly following, when something big reared out of the undergrowth! Furry and filthy, spattered with mud and blood, it growled wrathfully down at the three of them!
   Dipper ground to a halt, throwing out his arms to stop Norman and Mabel. "W-Werecat . . ."
   "Oh no . . ." Norman gasped, his eyes fixed on the murderous beast.
   "Again?!" Mabel exclaimed in disbelief.
   Instinct whispered in Dipper's pointed ears, and he passed it quietly to his friend and his sister. "Back up slowly . . . Back to the river, it won't follow us across . . ."
   But before they had retreated more than three careful steps, the Werecat crouched down low!
   "LOOK OUT!" Dipper screamed, and the three of them dodged aside as the Werecat pounced!
   Before it could round on them, Dipper jumped to a tree and skittered up its trunk!
   Mabel gripped Norman, drew her grappling hook, and fired yet again into the canopy above! Retracting fast, it pulled them upward with Mabel's triumphant cry, "GRAPPLING HOOK!"
   But her grip failed; Norman slipped out of it, and fell back through the air . . .
   "NORMAN!" Mabel cried.
   "NEO!" Dipper yelled.
   The ground was soft, but Norman still hit it hard. Stunned, he could barely rise. When he gazed at the Werecat, he didn't even have the breath to shout. Or maybe he was too stunned to recognize it.
   "Normeon, run!" Dipper shouted, though he saw his friend couldn't even stand.
   The Werecat saw this, too . . .
   "Hissstay away from mey friend!"
   The Werecat crouched . . .
   But it was Dipper who sprung!
   Diving down from above, he plowed into the Werecat, then sank his claws—even his teeth—into its coat! Shrieking, it flailed violently in every direction, but he clung to it! For his life! For his friend! Fur literally flied!
   Still clenching the walking stick, Norman staggered to his feet. Before his eyes, the Werecat lurched toward a tree. Dipper leapt away right before it pounded its back against the tree. He landed, then placed himself between Norman and the Werecat. Though it sounded distant, like it came from miles away, Norman heard Dipper's voice promising, "I'll protect yeou! Stay behind meow!"
   "Dipper . . ." Norman murmured weakly.
   Above the fray, Mabel finally managed to extricate her grappling hook from the branches. Without the least hesitation, she began clambering down as fast as she could.
   Recovered from its self-inflicted blow, the Werecat rose up again. It looked up at the two boys, facing Dipper—the other werecat—especially. They were both breathless, both filled with a killing rage, but only one of them was dripping with blood. It intended to make someone pay for that . . .
   "Hissstay back!" Dipper warned. "I beat a meultibear, and I can beat yeou teoo!"
   The Werecat reared up and roared!
   Unafraid, Dipper puffed himself up and hissed!
   And Norman, in spite of himself, breathed, "So ferocious . . ."
   The Werecat crouched again, ready to lunge! Ready to kill!
   "YARN GRENADE!"
   A ball of bright yellow yarn flew out of the canopy to bounce off the astonished Werecat's face!
   Before it could recover, Dipper jumped in with a swiping uppercut! His claws raked its nose! Sudden and intense, the pain made it stumble backwards, down the ravine!
   "DUCK!" Norman ordered, and Dipper did as Norman jumped forward and swung the dogwood walking stick with all he had! CRACK! Like a baseball bat against the Werecat's skull! The blow made it stagger back drunkenly! To the bank of the river!
   "GET DOWN!" Mabel shouted. Both the boys spun to see her, at the base of the tree, aiming her grappling hook past them! They dove aside, and she fired! The tri-prong flew straight and true, connecting solidly with the face of the Werecat! Like a KO punch, the tri-prong laid it out!
   There was no sagging downward, no collapsing into a heap, no folding at the knees; the Werecat simply fell straight back—straight into Inertia River. The water enveloped it without a struggle.
   With baited breath, the kids watched and waited.
   Nothing happened.
   Eventually, Mabel hazarded a question. "Should we . . . pull it out of the river?"
   "Well—"
   The water began to churn! Then suddenly Norman recoiled with a shout!
   "What?!" Dipper and Mabel demanded together.
   "Y-you didn't see it?"
   "See what?" the twins still demanded as one.
   "The Werecat!" Norman responded disbelievingly. "It leapt up! It was shrieking! Then it just . . . sorta dissolved in the water . . ."
   Dipper eyed the boiling water warily. "Then what's in the water right neow?"
   A shaggy form burst forth, gagging at the air! Its face was a twisted grimace—half cat, half ape! Thrashing wildly, it clawed at the bank, crawling up onto it—up towards the kids! It looked deranged!
   Still pumping straight adrenaline, Norman didn't think; he just reacted.
   THWACK! Down came the walking stick!
   Thump. Down went the creature.
   "Okay, if you guys want," Mabel announced, "we can throw it back in the river."
   Norman nudged it curiously with the walking stick. It was completely still, and yet it was moving. Then he realized what was happening. "Guys, I think . . . I think it's changing back!"
   "What?!" Dipper leapt forward hopefully, and Mabel followed close behind. "Whoa . . ."
   Before their eyes, fanged teeth flattened and facial features broadened. The ears slid slowly from the top of the head down to the side of the head, where they gradually became small and round. Claws retracted and then morphed into fingernails, while the tail shortened until it vanished altogether. Like a wave, fur receded—leaving pinkish (if still quite hairy) skin in its wake.
   "Um . . . I don't think this guy is wearing any clothes . . ." Mabel said uncomfortably. "Ew . . ." she concluded as the fur receded from two fat buttocks.
   "I think this guy is the Meailman . . ." Dipper proposed, seeing the familiar, heavily-bearded face. "Ha! So I guess Soos was almeost right . . . not a werewolf; but a werecat . . ."
   Staring thoughtfully at the river, Norman mused, "Aversion to water . . . Certainly it is rarer . . . Never crossed the river, and Dipper didn't willingly . . ."
   Dipper's ears perked at the mention of his name. "Huh?"
   "And the Werecat just now only I could see—a ghost? a specter?—dissolved in the water . . ."
   "Norman, you're talking to someone we can't see or hear again," Mabel informed him genially. "Who's there, and—more importantly—are they adequately impressed by us beating the Werecat?"
   "Hmm?" Norman looked up, somewhat embarrassed. "S-sorry . . . I was just talking to myself . . . Dipper," he addressed his friend seriously, "I need to know. Did you bathe yesterday or today?"
   "Or ever?" Mabel cut in.
   "What? Why?"
   "Just tell me. Between yesterday morning (when the Werecat scratched you or bit you or whatever) and now, did you take a bath? Did you shower?"
   Somewhat defensive, Dipper said, "How's that yeour business?"
   "You mean you didn't?" Norman pressured him intently. "Even after all the running around in the woods and everything?"
   "Please! That is nothing!" Mabel said dismissively. "He goes days without bathing all the time. He once went thirteen days straight. Dad and Mom had to ambush him with a hose and a fire extinguisher full of soap suds."
   "Hisssilence, meortal! I mean, Meabel!"
   "Please, Dipper," Norman begged him. "Yes or no?"
   "Yes, I bathed," Dipper replied sulkily.
   For a moment, Norman was shaken. Then, a look of horrified incredulity spread across his face. "You don't mean . . . with your tongue?"
   Dipper crossed his arms defiantly. "Saliva is full of enzymes that—"
   "Gah! Don't even finish that sentence!" Mabel ordered. "Ever!"
   "What?! It meakes perfect sense! Why am I the only one who sees that?!"
   After a shudder, Norman stated, "Well, then I think I've got good news: this guy isn't a werecat anymore. I think we just cured him."
   Dipper cocked his head questioningly. So too did Mabel.
   "And I've got better news: I think I know what cured him. Mabel," he said quickly, "would you please let the line out of your grappling hook a little?"
   Mabel obligingly pushed the release, and Norman drew a length of it.
   "What's the cure, then?" Dipper asked eagerly.
   "Keep a tight hold on this end," Dipper directed Mabel.
   "Huh? Oh! Ohhhhh," she intoned slowly. "Gotcha."
   "What? C'meon, Normeon!" Dipper urged.
   "Ready?" Norman asked Mabel.
   "Yep. And . . . now!"
   To Dipper's bewilderment and sudden deep sense of unease, they both ran circles around him, until the line of the grappling hook ensnared him. "Wha—Yeou guys! What're yeou doing?!" he snarled.
   "Giving you a bath," Norman told him.
   Dipper's blood turned to ice. "W-what?"
   "Turns out that's the cure. It's why werecats are so rare—they just have to be dunked."
   "Y-yeou wouldn't . . . Neot yeou, Normeon. Neot to meow. We're buds!" Dipper was writhing under the loops of chord; his voice had become a desperate squeak. "A bud wouldn't do this! Neot this!"
   Squatting down, Norman heaved his bound friend over his shoulder.
   "Remeowmber when yeou were trying to hit meow with sticks?! Let's go back to hitting meow with sticks!" Dipper pleaded. "It wasn't this, anyway! Yeou hit him with a stick!That's what cured him! C'meon, guys! I'd prefer the sticks!"
   Trudging to the river bank, Norman waded in.
   "Neo! Neo!" Dipper yowled, thrashing as best he could.
   Then Norman threw him in.
   "Neo—" SPLOSH.
   Behind him, Mabel teased, "You know, if he drowns, you might get to do mouth-to-mouth . . ."
   Ignoring her, Norman focused on the water where Dipper had sunk down. Then all of a sudden, he started back with a gasp. Immediately after, he plunged down and hauled Dipper out of the water.
   "What was it?" Mabel asked. "Was it like some werecat ghost coming out of Dipper?"
   "Y-yeah, I think so . . . It was like a smaller werecat—"
   "A werekitten!" Mabel insisted.
   "—all flailing and screaming . . . before it dissolved in the water . . . You okay, Dipper?" he asked solicitously of his coughing friend.
   "Traitor! Judhisss!" Dipper hacked. "Yeou teoo . . . have betrayed mey . . . tiny trust in yeou!"
   "Yeah, you're welcome," Norman said with a little smile. "Let's get the rope off you."
   Sulking and dripping, Dipped insisted, "It didn't even work . . ."
   "Then what's going on with your hands, Dipstick?" Mabel pointed out ecstatically.
   Looking at his hands, Dipper gasped. The fur was already receding. "It's working! It's really working! Ha . . . Yeou guys have no idea heow weird this feels!" he laughed as his body retransformed.
   "There go the whiskers . . . and the teeth . . ." Mabel counted off joyfully. "And the tail . . . And—wow, your ears . . . moving . . . it just looks so wrong."
   "Imagine how it feels for me!" Dipper exalted. "It's liked . . . they're stretching back in . . ."
   Norman looked up suddenly. "Wait, say that again."
   "Uh . . . Imagine how it feels for me?"
   "You didn't say 'meow'!"
   "I didn't? Haha! I didn't!" Dipper realized, practically starting to dance. "I'm me again!"
   "We gotta test this," Mabel declared, whirling to snag her yarn. She then began waving it in her brother's face, asking, "How does this make you feel?"
   "Annoyed . . . but I don't want to murder it!"
   "Yes! I can wear 'Geronirainbo' again!"
   "What about . . . tuna?" Norman suggested eagerly.
   "Gross! Haha!" Norman practically giggled, dancing around them both. "Revolting! Hehehehe! The fact that I put some in my mouth makes me nauseous!"
   "One more test," Norman insisted. Turning to Mabel, he pulled a sprig of plant from her hair. Catnip. Brandishing it under his friend's nose, he asked, "Feel anything?"
   "Nothing! No, wait . . ." Dipper froze suddenly, absolute horror on his face. "Oh no . . . What if it's coming ba . . . a . . . a-tsoo."
   Mabel snorted, "Pff! Well, there's that. He still—"
   "Don't say it," Dipper warned her.
   "—sneezes like—"
   "Don't say it, Mabel!"
   "A werekitten," Norman finished. "Adorable."
   Mabel cracked. And then Norman did too.
   Pouting, Norman insisted, "It's not funny."
   But they just kept laughing. Eventually, he stepped forward and shoved them both into the river. Not even that could stop their laughter, however, and it was really only a matter of time before Dipper started laughing, too. Then they splashed him, and he waded in to splash them back.