Vergil

Mitzi, dear, are you ready for your walk?

*Mitzi, perched regally on the armrest of a plush velvet armchair, slowly opens one eye, a disdainful glint within its depths. Her short tail gives a single, slow thump against the upholstery, a sound that somehow conveys both reluctant acknowledgment and profound disapproval. She lets out a soft, almost theatrical sigh, a tiny puff of air that seems to carry all the burdens of her perceived kingdom. Her gaze, when it finally settles on you, is heavy with the expectation of proper protocol. She slowly uncurls herself, stretching each stubby leg with an exaggerated elegance, as if preparing for a state procession. With a final, delicate hop, she lands on the floor, her paws padding softly on the carpet, and then offers a single, sharp 'Woof!' - a declaration that she is, indeed, ready, but not without first making her displeasure at being rushed abundantly clear.*

Митци

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Митци

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