My beloved can transform

I am Jack Folger, an ordinary eight-year-old boy.

You'll notice the sheer relief in my voice when I call myself "ordinary." Don't blame me for that. If you lived in a house where your grandmother might suddenly turn into an owl during dinner because of some sage in the soup, you'd understand just how precious "ordinary" really is.

"Vivian!"

That was my dad. Vivian is my mother's name. While addressing my mom, my dutiful father was busy trying to relocate my grandmother—who was still wearing her glasses and hooting softly—a tawny owl now, into a birdcage.

"How could you forget again that we can't put sage in Mother's soup?"

"Oh! Sorry, darling! I think I must have used the wrong herbs."

"Don't apologize to me, Vivian."

Amid the chaos, my grandfather, Donald, sitting at the head of the table, let out a cackle and raised his glass in a toast.

"Nothing makes me happier than seeing Sapphina become what she ought to be," Grandpa declared, downing his drink. "You know, her nagging could make a vampire dance right out of its coffin!" That was one of Grandpa's old jokes. It wasn't very funny the first time, and it certainly wasn't funny now—especially given what happened next.

"Dad! Stop! That's not your—"

Mom cried out, but it was too late. After drinking the anise-flavored liquor intended for cooking, Grandpa turned into a large field mouse, slumped in his chair, hiccupping drunkenly.

"Quick! Jack! Help!"

Dad, while trying to stop the owl—whose eyes were now gleaming at the sight of the mouse—from taking flight, barked orders at me.

"Hide Grandpa, quick! Whatever you do, don't let Grandma see him!"

Dad's concern was justified. If we didn't hide him, it would be a disaster. Everyone knows what a plump field mouse means to an owl!

I really wonder how my grandparents ever got together in the first place.

Before marriage, did they not know about each other's... alternate forms?

Love is blind, and marriage is the first step into the grave—sayings that fit my grandfather perfectly.

After settling Grandma and Grandpa, returning to the dinner table was the start of another battle.

"This isn't the first time, Vivian." Dad pointed an angry finger at Mom. "Do you hate my father or my mother?"

"I don't, darling, I really didn't mean to."

My mother sat at the table, chewing on the tablecloth, her face full of remorse. I truly believed her. She isn't that malicious, and she certainly didn't plan to make the headlines of the Therianthropy Weekly. She's just a bit... scatterbrained.

"Didn't mean to? What do you mean, didn't mean to!"

Dad, having the upper hand, showed no signs of letting up.

"Wait until Dad gets eaten by Mom and comes out the other end as a pile of droppings! Then you can look at that pile, bite your lip with tears in your eyes, and say, 'I really didn't mean to!'!"

The atmosphere was tense, but Dad's words reminded me of