Short Story 8: Mr. Darcy

Mr. Darcy was everything Myrna wished him to be. Gray, sleek. A warm body. Even his claws against her skin was a reminder that he was alive, that she was not alone, that she had no control over what he did. He was his own. And he was choosing to be with her.

This is why she did not move for two hours.

This is also why her toosh fell asleep.

And if you know anything about Myrna’s toosh, you will know that it does not take well to sleeping.

But Mr. Darcy. Oh, Mr. Darcy. He was a luxury.

When he finally ambled away,  she tried to lurch for the phone, but found it out of her grasp.

She wiggled her toes. “All right, old woman. Get up.”

But the lecture did no good. The couch was too deep.

Mr. Darcy licked his silken paws in the doorway.

“Fickle creature,” Myrna scolded. But she didn’t mean it.

She made another lunge at the phone. This time she managed to knock it to the floor.

“Well, you could help, you know.”

He regarded her placidly.

“A dog would do it,” she said. “A dog would nose the phone closer so I could get it. Or pick it up in its mouth and hand it to me. Come on, Mr. Darcy.”

Though she didn’t know what she would do with the phone if she had it. Call the fire department?

Myrna found that if she laid sideways and pushed off, she could lift her toosh from its concave spot.

She landed with a bump on her hands and knees, the phone directly under her nose.

“Glad you’re the only one to see that. Karen would have made a brouhaha.”

It took some effort to raise herself, some grunting, but she did it.

Mr. Darcy mewed.

“Selfish creature,” Myrna said. “Hungry, I suppose.”

And she followed his long, flicking tail into the kitchen.

Thank you to Myrna and sorry for accidentally skipping your words! They were the very inspirational words: fickle, ambled and brouhaha. If you're wondering why I'm writing shorts, click here.