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Emmie, Leo, and Elliot are werewolves. Adorable werewolves, mind you. Fluffy ears, fuzzy paws, swishy tails. Not a terrifying fang among them.

Elliot has discovered that howling makes people laugh, which means he’s been doing it approximately every twelve seconds.

“Awooooo!”

There he goes again.

Emmie is having problems of her own. Her giant fuzzy paw mittens have taken out two cups of cider, a bowl of candy, and something involving caramel corn.

She’s apologized to six vendors in twenty minutes.

At this rate, the werewolves are going to be banned from the festival before they eat anybody.

We’re trick-or-treating as one big happy mob, working our way from booth to booth while the vendors shovel candy into the kids’ bags with reckless abandon. It’s the final night of the festival, and apparently nobody wants to haul twelve pounds of miniature peanut butter cups home.

I respect that kind of commitment to inventory reduction.

The pets have joined the festivities too, and every last one of them is in costume.

Fish has a tiny witch hat perched between her ears and the expression of a cat who’s currently drafting my obituary.

Take it off, she warns with a yowl. She gave in during a moment of weakness as we were leaving the cottage, but it looks as if she’s changed her mind again. It is a woman’s prerogative, after all—human or feline.

“You look adorable.”

You have until three.

I take it off.

I’m not taking my chances.

Sherlock is dressed as a superhero, complete with a bright red cape and a little black mask, and I’m pretty sure this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him.

I’M A SUPERHERO! he barks at every person we pass, cape flapping behind him. I FIGHT CRIME! I SAVE PEOPLE! I ACCEPT TREATS!

That last one seems to be the bulk of his mission.

Duchess, on the other hand, has been stuffed into a Victorian dress dripping with lace, complete with a tiny parasol fastened to her collar. She looks less like she’s celebrating Halloween and more like she’s waiting for someone to announce tea.

One must maintain dignity even in absurd circumstances, she observes, gliding past Sherlock with her nose in the air.

I HAVE A CAPE!

Yes, Duchess mewls. We’re all devastated for you.

Sherlock races ahead to inform another group of trick-or-treaters that Spider Cove is safe now.

Apparently, crime has the night off.

“Bizzy!” Georgie’s voice cuts through the crowd, and I turn to find her and Mom headed our way.

And apparently, Georgie has decided Halloween is the perfect time to launch her second career as a pirate pinup.

She’s stuffed into a red corset that makes mine look downright wholesome, black leather pants, and knee-high boots with heels sharp enough to use as a skewer. A feathered tricorn hat sits crooked over her gray tumbleweed of hair, and there’s a sword strapped to her hip.

At eighty-something, Georgie looks ready to commandeer a ship, steal the treasure, and possibly the captain while she’s at it.

Mom went pirate too, although she took a decidedly different approach.