What if My Girlfriend is a Werewolf

In my basement, I saw my girlfriend; she looked resplendent. “But, wait,” I then thought to myself: “What if she is a werewolf? That would be terrible! She would start growling and acting untame. Now I must find a way to get out of this house, because, any minute now, she might let out a howl and transform; she’s likely even to start drooling on the floor — I better put down a towel, just in case. Now I feel so stupid for wasting my time reading so many vampire novels; I should have explored other genres of literature, to widen the horizons of my knowledge; for, as it is, I barely know anything about werewolf women. I really should call the emergency number . . .” So I dial 9-1-1 and say to the operator: “Hello, I think I have a werewolf in my house; I live on Hickory Hill, here’s my full address . . .” Then the operator replies, “OK, Mr. Ray, we’re on the way.” 

Seven seconds later, showing up on my front yard are fifteen squad cars, the fire department, and an alienist. “Welcome,” I say, “please, come in. She’s right over there. — Only, be careful; I don’t want a whole lot of fur on my carpet.”

“We understand your concern,” says the emergency team spokesperson. “Are you sure she’s a werewolf?”

“Well, not exactly,” I say, “but it’s possible. And that’s enough to convince me.”

“Enough to convince us, too,” says the spokesperson, who then turns to the team of emergency technicians and says: “Start the fog.” 

Now they uncoil and aim at my girlfriend enormous accordion tubes that begin to emit a murky mist, which soaks her clothing and makes her collapse. Then they transport her to the nearest kennel to begin their inquisition.