The woman makes her way back to the bar after a brief stint in the Mudcat Dressing Room. In this case, room is a generous description of bare tile and a shower curtain that doubles as a petri dish in the off season. Her silken slipdress lends her an air of grace that the furry bluejeans could only aspire to.

The designer of the gown, a Siamese Mousey Tongue, would show a CheshireGrin to see it come to life this way. It is tougher than it looks considering the never-ending stream of wellwishers she has seen during the day bearing thanks from their animals, along with an estimated metric ton of cookies, candies and fudge. "Oh but darling, you look so frail/tired/etc...have a piece of Aunt Martie's secret fudge, THAT will make you feel better!" So it is not so much inherent grace as the client induced diabetic coma that gives the wander to her way.

She stops momentarily to box the ears of the young man who is maniacally peeling the censor stickers off the the MudcatCalendar. "You keep your grubby little mitts off of MissApril or I'll have to bust your chops." She smiles and plants a mistletoe-inspired smooch on his left cheek.

The tavern is just beginning to fill as the bartender relieves himself of the sodden bartowel and declares "No returns!" The roaring fire and heat of the many bodies should be stifling by this point, but the repeated swinging of the tavern door to allow more revelers keeps the air free.

Hesperis has finally found a willing soul for euchre, and the game is in full swing. Cleigh is dozing a little too close to the fire, but the asbestos underpants he stole (um, borrowed) from an unwitting hawk protect his fur completely. Mick finally won the chaseme-chaseyou by diving under the table to grab the ankles of THE FAIR ONE, and an undue amount of ChristmasJoy has been doled out, much to the delight of the other taverngoers. Mario and Susan are exchanging recipies while a whiskey sodden kitty-cat purrs in quiet slumber in the makeshift manger. The Holly and the Ivy plays while a solitary couple drifts on the hardwood floor. The glistening eye of the cusioned Misfit surveys this all with the warmth of the season for he is among friends.

In a whisper of finest perfumed Siamese silk, the woman returns to her stool at the bar. "Your machine can reproduce THIS??" she asks.