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The first time he slid the flannel nightgown on and placed the matching night cap on his head was a magical event. An event unequaled by anything; not the first time he had eaten a little pig in it's quaking hay house remains, not the first time he had chased some shepherd's flock about a field, not even the first time he ate some careless village idiot who had been left to watch the flock, and had cried wolf one too many times. There was nothing to describe it; and at first, he thought it was just the old woman he'd chased out of the house to get the clothes, or the anticipation of that delectable young girl coming down the road any minute towards the old cottage, a meal which would be his, if he could simply play the role right.

But no, it was the feel of the flannel, brushing against his coarse fur; the soft, crushed, fawn's hide feel of the soft, warm, flower print cloth. It was the way it hid his wolfish nature; he posed in front of the mirror for ten, twenty, thirty minutes, lost in a fantasy world within a fantasy; staring at the lace collar, how it stood out against his dark grey pelt, admiring the pale features of the soft, wash-faded material with something akin to awe. Having been born a wolf, he'd never really worn clothing until then. In a way, it completed him as a character far better than any of his other exploits ever had; it made him feel.. Human. Made him feel whole. And then, of course, as he was admiring himself, the tentative knock at the door came, and he was brought back to the world of make believe from his own fantasies. He panic'd, and flung himself into the bed.

And then she came in; a child, in the most absolutely stunning red hood and cape, and little red gingham dress, with a white apron across her front. He found himself sweating; which was, in of itself, a feat. Wolves are not supposed to be capable of sweat, and there it was, that stressed sensation, as she peered at him while he hid beneath the covers of her grandmother's bed. She could see something was wrong, too. No child could be as daft as to mistake a wolf for their nana. Then again, she was blonde, and extremely dim-witted. She had offered him flowers when they had first met, after all. But as she approached, it was her outfit which caught his eye. And then, then the questions began.

"Why grandma, what big eyes you have," came the first comment, to which he replied, "All the better to see you with, my dear." As he admired her dress more than the supple skin and plush body, which had been all he could admire before, in the woods, outside. Her dress was the kind that laced from the back; and was hand made; he could see the delicate stitch work, possibly thrown into the cloth by the shaking hands of the woman he'd likely given a heart attack to when he'd appeared, snarling, at her door, and threatened to eat her if she didn't leave.

"And Grandma, what a big nose you have," Came the Shirley Temple of giggles, and a playful poke at his quivering snout; which brought a puffy sleeve closer to his muzzle; he could smell the perfume of clothing washed, and hung out to dry, of woven cloth made from wool and cotton, the newest rage in the land. And the lace tying her hood about her neck; it was the finest of silk; he could make even the most intricate of details out. But it was the smell he could sense the most; making his moist, whiskery nose quiver, though she may have thought it was her jab at his snoot. "All the better to smell you with," he said, eyes never leaving the pearl drops of bead-work on the bib of her dress, making out flowers of pink and blue.

"But oh! Grandma! Such big teeth you have!!" She gasped, causing her hood to fall. And he suddenly had quite enough. ".. Look, my dear," he remarked, quite suddenly, sitting up in the bed, pulling the night cap off with a paw. "I do think we have played this silly tirade enough; it's always the same thing through the years. My father before me did this; he was killed by a woodsman's axe. And his father before him. It's a tradition for our family line to pull this stunt. But quite frankly.. I'm far more interested in other things." He wasn't surprised when she screamed, and then deftly pointed at him. "OH NO! A WOLF! And he's going to eat me!" He rolled his eyes at her childish tirade. "Oh, will anyone not come and save me! Help, oh help, for I have befallen a most frightful fate!"

"Are you quite done?" He finally asked, when she seemed quite beside herself, as he fingered the bed linens betwixt his claws. "Because, honestly, all I would like to do, is ask you where you got your dress." She was taken aback by this.

"You aren't going to eat me?" She asked, aghast. "No." He replied, forthwith. "Did your grandmother make it for you?" "But you're supposed to eat me. You're the big bad wolf." She was incredulous now, getting angrier by the minute, by the look of cherry hue coming to her cheeks, a delightful match for the crimson of her outfit. "But I'm not going to. You should be happy for that." He replied again, reaching out to catch the edge of her cape, sliding his claws across it slightly, to feel the material, to temper it. "Is this velvet, or Velor?"

"Why won't you eat me?!" She demanded now, yanking the cape from betwixt his claws, stamping her feet nigh fit to punch a hole into the floor. "Am I not pretty enough?" "No," he replied, sighing, as he noticed another dress in the corner, and rose from the bed, sliding that way. "Am I too pretty?" "No." He grunted, ignoring her while she whirled around to face him, one hand on her hip, the other still coquettishly balancing a basket in it's crook. "Too young?" She demanded, "No," He growls, as he plucked the dress from it's maker's dummy and held it up against his chest, examining himself in the nearby mirror once more. "Too old?" "No." He replied snappishly, as he peeled out of the drab nightgown, and into the blue garment, treating it like a delicate flower.

"Then why? Why? Why? Am I fat? Am I Thin? Am I Blonde? Should I have Red Hair? Do I not have enough Dimples? Is this the wrong day? Or, Mayhaps, I'm the wrong gender?" "None of those. Here; does this dress make me look fat?" "Why are you asking me this?! You're supposed to be eating me!!!!"

"Well, I'm sorry," He replied, finally, as he reached behind him to tie the wasteband in a bow just above the lump of his tail, "I'm not interested in eating little girls. Though I'm quite interested in your tailor. Do you think I could have their name or address? I would like a dress much like yours." The hateful woman's look she gave him could almost have burned a hole in the lovely dress he was now admiring himself in. Almost. Apparently, though, aside from the look, she felt she had only one other recourse to take. She screamed. "If you won't eat me, then you're not a wolf, and you therefor do not belong in my grandmother's house, or my grandmother's clothing!"

"Oh honestly, can't we simply behave civily about this man-" "GET! OUT!!"

When the set of cutlery from within the basket nearly hit his head and shattered the mirror behind him, he realized he had outstayed his welcome. Hastily, dodging a bottle of wine, and a loaf of honey bread, he removed the dress from his lean frame, and dove out the window, narrowly being missed by a pie flung like a frisbee, still in the tin. The shrieking that followed him sent birds flying into the air like the world's worst profanity, and he like to have thought he just barely got out of there before the woodsman and the old woman returned. Let them sort out the little brat's mess; he had other things on his mind.

That had been years ago. Leaving the house of the grandmother and the shrieking girl had been the best thing he had ever done; for it gave him an insight unto his true calling. He wound his way into a town on the edge of a forest some days layer, and, disguised as man in wolfs' skins, had begun selling the various objects his family had picked up other the years of looting little pig's houses, of picking off old women and their grandaughters, of eating foolish young men and their flocks when their villages would not come for them. It surprisingly amassed to quite a bit of money; with which he bought a tailor's shop from a young man who was being hired by the king for the job of Giant Slayer. It was cheap because of the flies that tended to gather in the shop because of the butcher next door.

And within a short amount of time, after reading many books, he produced his first dress, which sold for a great deal of money. And then another, and another. With each dress, he got better, and better. And he always kept the one he felt was the best, for himself. Years passed, and now, now here he sat, by the fire of his home, his good friend Puss (another animal with a clothes fetish; boots, of all things!) next to him puffing on a pipe, while his infant son lay sleeping curled up around a bedtime story book before the fire, and his wife (a nice lady wolf, who had no problem wearing the pants in the family) was in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes after a meal. He chuckles to himself, thoughtfully, before looking over to his friend, and smiling, letting his shaggy whiskers curl with his lips.

"Betcha they never thought this is what Happily Ever After looked like, eh?"