The Match of the Century
"Pssst, Mistral! Mistral, you really should warn Anemo somehow!"
Aeolus was trying his hardest to be heard and understood by his furry comrade, who was once again busy with his siesta on the living room windowsill. He lay in the honey-colored sunlight that transmitted only the warmth, but not the biting "teeth" typical of Irish weather, through the glass. But Mistral was simply deep in... siesta, much like Anemo often plunges into the fever of writing, hearing nothing. Sirocco, wanting to lend a hand, executed a leap that wasn't exactly successful. Intending to land next to Mistral on the windowsill—but since mathematical calculations and distance estimation are not, as you know, the little guy's forte—he found himself clinging with his tiny claws to the curtain pulled to one side. He dangled dangerously, ready to fall, but with another leap, he landed "safely"... right on the black coil known as Mistral the Parisian, who jumped up as if burnt. The result? Both of them landed on the carpet.
"Oh Ciel! Cherches-tu ma mort, petit barbare?"
"Forgive me, Mistral! Aeolus says we need to get Anemo's attention..."
"Anemo? What’s with him?" The chat noir immediately steadied both his balance and his voice.
Aeolus sighed lengthily.
"Anemo just went out for a walk in Bermuda shorts and his Cocker Spaniel house slippers."
"Oh, mon Dieu! The whole neighborhood will laugh at us! Not to mention that 'Women cannot be tamed' business is buzzing around here..."
As if on cue, lined up neatly behind their master, all the furry ones (even Aeolus, well-hidden in the Parisian’s black fur) stepped out in front of the house. Outside, there was great hustle and bustle: Fleur was jumping rope, Noel, leash in hand, was taking his "sun collector" out for a stroll, and the collector was barking up a storm, wagging her tail happily at the sight of the little girl.
"How are you, neighbor? How's life? Working on 'The Thief of'..."
"Oh, no! Hello, Noel! I'm working on something completely different... But what a beautiful day! A bit cold, but this honeyed light is priceless."
Talking as they went, the two neighbors—accompanied by Fleur, who was completely melting over the puppy Skye (Skye, who stepped at the head of the 'ad hoc procession' haughtily, wagging her tail), and finally, behind them, Mistral and Sirocco, keeping close like two mismatched shadows of Anemo—reached the turnstile in the middle of the street. This turnstile separates Ether Drive from Ether Rise, a place where an oasis of greenery stretches out, perfect for play. Skye, tiny and impatient, slipped through first, but Noel, a grown man, was forced to lift the hand holding the leash as if he were raising a fishing rod with a large, restless catch struggling on the end. The cord was stretched to the limit, and the puppy, already on the green space side, was running... on the spot. With difficulty, laughing at his spunky friend, Noel passed through the metal arms of the turnstile. For the others, it was child's play from then on...
Noel released the leash carabiner with a metallic click that sounded like a starter pistol at the finish line. "Free!" he shouted, and in that second, time compressed. Noel’s arm swung in a perfect arc, launching a yellow ball toward the center of the green oasis. The sphere sliced through the air, leaving an imaginary trail of light behind, while on the "lawn," all hell broke loose.
"Now, little one! Show them what a force ten wind means!" Aeolus shouted, but his voice was lost as he was catapulted out of Mistral's fur due to a sudden start. The little referee landed spectacularly under a broadleaf plantain leaf at the edge of the field. He adjusted his invisible "glasses" and stayed there, his heart beating like a jammed clock: he was officially the Grass Referee.
In the center of the arena, Mistral suddenly found himself caught between two living torpedoes. From the left, Skye, a whirlwind of brown fur and pure enthusiasm; from the right, Sirocco, an orange streak of muscle and ready claws.
"Oh, quelle catastrophe!" the chat noir managed to meow before executing a forced pirouette to avoid being trampled.
Sirocco was first. With an acrobatic leap, he dug his claws into the "prey." In his pirate mind, the moment of victory was coming: the yarn ball should unravel, stretch out, let him get tangled in its magic threads! But amazement! The yellow "yarn" remained compact, elastic, and cheeky. The ball slipped through his paws like a slippery fish, bouncing directly into Skye's wet nose.
"It’s mine! It’s mine!" the puppy’s short, victorious bark seemed to say.
With incredible agility, Skye intercepted the ball mid-air, fixed it between her teeth, and without looking back at Sirocco—who stood frozen, studying with a perplexed face the object that refused to fall apart—she bolted toward Noel.
"Point for the canine team!" Aeolus whispered from under his leaf, noting the score in the dust beneath the broadleaf plantain. Anemo watched fascinated, his Cocker Spaniel slippers pulsing with emotion on the sidelines. The match had just begun, and the dread of defeat was only now starting to prick Sirocco’s whiskers.
The match was suddenly interrupted, not by a whistle, but by a dense scent of lavender and lilies that invaded the green space. From the direction of Ether Rise, stepping as if on a fashion catwalk, appeared Daisy Queen. She was the image of plump perfection, wearing immaculate white gloves and sheltering under a raw green sun umbrella. In her arms, like a precious treasure, she clutched Lady Bell, a brown Cocker Spaniel, so groomed and perfumed that Sirocco sneezed three times, losing all trace of sporting concentration. Daisy lowered the puppy onto the grass but fixed the leash with an iron hand wrapped in lace.
Lady Bell froze. She wasn't looking at the ball, nor at Skye. Her eyes fixed, with a sudden and inexplicable love, on Anemo’s feet. With a whimper, she began to wag her tail, trying to "socialize" with the Cocker Spaniel slippers. She sniffed them with almost religious devotion, convinced, perhaps, that she had finally found some relatives who knew how to stay quiet and not get their paws dirty. In fact, you would have sworn Lady Bell was the most stylish of the Cocker Spaniel "triplets"; the other two, Anemo’s, though well-behaved, were totally lacking in style and smelled only of grass.
"Lady Bell, not today, sweetie!" Daisy’s velvet voice intervened, tugging sharply on the leash just as the puppy was preparing to give a wet kiss to the plush nose on Anemo’s right foot. "Mommy just brought you from the groomer! Did you look in the mirror? You’re a darling! We can’t risk getting covered in neighborhood dust, my dear!"
Lady Bell let out a sigh that would have melted
even a heart of stone. Her gaze swung between Anemo’s slippers—which at least stood still and seemed to understand her suffering—and the forbidden spectacle on the field, where Skye, the "unleashed" little morkie, was doing a victory pirouette with the yellow ball, which this time she decided to dedicate to the tufted Fleur.
"Look at that girl, Noel!" Daisy cried, pointing her undecided umbrella at both Skye and Fleur at the same time.
"Which one, dear lady?" Noel asked, fully entertained by the spectacle of the "match."
"This is simply scandalous! And you, Mr. Anemo, with these... dogs on your feet... are you conducting an experiment on canine split personality?"
Sirocco, taking advantage of the fact that Daisy had captured everyone's attention, crawled on his belly toward Lady Bell, wanting to see if the perfumed one was alive or just another plush like his master's already famous slippers.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" Mistral, the chat noir, muttered, raising a black paw in a gesture of weariness. "C'est insupportable! We are caught between a minor league match and a beauty salon. Aeolus, give a signal! Whistle the end of this masquerade!"
From under the broadleaf plantain leaf, the little referee watched fascinated. In his "referee’s bible," there was no rule for a situation where one player is a slipper, another is a perfume, and the only ones playing for real are a morkie and a ginger pirate disputing a ball for life and death.
Noel tried to settle the diplomatic conflict, raising his hands in peace:
"Daisy, dear, it’s just a bit of play! Look at them, they’re communicating so beautifully!"
But Daisy would not be swayed. She clutched her purse to her chest and took another step back, shielding her dress train from Skye’s enthusiasm.
"Communicating through germs, Noel! Lady Bell is an aristocrat, not a field terrier!"
Lady Bell, hearing the verdict, lowered her
long, silky ears, looking at Anemo with infinite sadness. His plush slippers seemed the only ones who understood her suffering of being "too clean" for such a beautiful day. Skye brought the ball and dropped it demonstratively right at the tip of Anemo’s dog-shoe, then briefly fraternized with Bell, but Daisy didn't relent. She raised her green umbrella like a shield, pulling the diva away from the "danger" of fun.
Seeing that negotiations had failed and that her brown sister was not allowed to play, Skye stopped abruptly, as if someone had cut the power to this infinite energy motor. The little morkie did not bark again or pull any more stunts. She gave herself a short shake to clear the dust, sending one last cloud of dew toward Daisy’s white gloves, and turned her back on the whole gathering. Without any hesitation, she snatched up the yellow ball and set off with small but determined steps toward the exit of the green oasis, but then, as if it had become too heavy a burden for her, she abandoned the ball in the grass.
"There she goes, play is over!" Noel said, smiling and tightening the leash in his hand. "When she says 'enough,' it really is over."
Skye reached the turnstile with the metal arms in the middle of the street. She stopped there and cast a single glance over her shoulder at the others, then took determined steps toward the turnstile, calling Noel after her. The metal arms
rotated rhythmically, making a dry sound, marking the end of the adventure.
"C'est fini..." Mistral muttered, climbing down from the wall where he had supervised the finale. "The little soldier has retired to the barracks. Sirocco, take that yarn ball that won’t unravel and let’s go home. I’ve run out of noir patience for today."
It was suddenly too quiet. Leaving behind the plump mistress and her perfumed puppy, Noel followed his own puppy docilely, as if the roles of master and pet had been reversed. The kittens went "pash-pash" ahead of Anemo, as if the position of the sun in the sky also influenced the position of the "shadows," and Fleur brought up the rear, dragging the rope she had recently been jumping behind her like a train.
"Hey, gang!" came a voice from behind. "Next time, take me along to play too!"
Remi Storm, looking like a teenager in her sports gear, was waving for them to wait.
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