The clothesline

Being nude but for a scrap of cloth down your front, a pair of ruffled socks, and a cat-ear-headband on your head, you see no better option than taking something from the clothesline. From the size of the house, you reckon its owner can stand to spare a shirt or two. Still, you keep a careful eye on the doghouse and its slumbering occupant as you tip-toe across the yard.

As far as you can tell it's unbothered by your passage, but as you get closer you can hear its heavy breathing, an uneasy reminder of its presence behind you when you reach the rusty "T"-shaped pole holding one end of the line. You cast one last glance over your shoulder before perusing the laundry hanging up.

You see socks of varying sizes, a shirt that would be too small to fit you, pants that would be far too big, a mesh something-or-other, and finally a nightgown that looks like it should do the job of conserving your modesty at the other end of the line. As you make your way to it, however, your foot lands on something soft that releases a piercing squeak into the night. Looking down you see a ball fashioned after yet another Cheshire Cat grinning up at you as its plaintive inhale squeals through its horrifyingly long re-inflation.

A growl sounds from behind you as the squeak ends, and you turn to see a large, shadowy form emerge from the doghouse. In the dark, you watch it rise once outside to a height you didn't expect, and as the clouds above shift to let the moonlight shine down, you see the hulking body of a man wearing only thick patches of fur. His growl grows with the moonlight, and as the full moon comes out from the clouds completely, the man appears to morph into something more... beastly.

You try to speak, and only a worried meow escapes, before the werewolf lifts his muzzle to the sky with a deep howl. Some instinct drives you to try and flee to the post of the clothesline, and as he comes charging at you, you manage to make it back to the post in time to scramble your way up to the top.

You're perched there a good eight feet off the ground when the werewolf comes hurtling past, skidding across the lawn as he drags himself to a stop nearby. The posture of the perch feels somehow natural to you, some kind of reflexive balance you didn't know you possessed allowing you to sit at the top on all-fours. As the werewolf regains his own posture, you notice he just might be tall enough to reach you.

You feel you should act fast before he makes an attempt, noting the doghouse as the only other thing nearby. At first it seems too far to reach, but the confidence that got you to the top of the post tells you you have the ability to make the jump. But is it worth the risk?