Oh no, another one.
Dincton Flatt ran a hand through the short tousle of inexcusably blond hair atop his head, judging himself in the reflection of a silver urn on his mantle. The verdict was guilty; the charge: unlicensed handsomeness, but the only bars he would be spending any time behind were those of the jovial tune he whistled to his mirror image.
Alas, a scrabbling at the front door interrupted his serenade. “Featherby, would you get that?” he sighed, adjusting his collar.
“I cannot, sir,” came the coyote’s reply behind him. “You’ve replaced all the door levers with knobs, and now my paws are unsuited to the task.”
“Come now, Featherby,” Flatt chided. “You know knobs are the style du jour.”
“Was that French, sir?”
“N-no, I said…’did your’.”
“Did my what, sir?”
“Your…self. Look, Featherby, whatever I said was an extremely normal thing to say; if you’ve misheard, I’ll simply have to recalibrate your ears.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“In any case, I dare say fashion mustn’t be beholden to the limits of your dexterity, so do find a way to keep up.”
“I shall endeavor thus, sir.”
Flatt looked back to his coyote. He seemed very much not to be endeavoring thus, but rather lying lazily on the sofa with his snout and paws overhanging the edge, watching a cooking show for dogs on the television set. A waste of time, to be sure, as Featherby was not only a coyote, but also a robot, and was perfectly incapable of eating.
Flatt shook his head and graciously stepped over to attend his own door, swinging it open with precision and elegance, having no trouble at all with the opulent bronze knob. He was greeted with the sight of an ornate envelope. Around that envelope were the jaws of a fox. The fox, sitting primly at his doorstep, had deep crimson fur, dainty black paws, and green, mechanical eyes.
Flatt narrowed his own eyes, careful not to unduly obstruct their unimpeachable blue. “Calliope.”
A sudden thump came from behind Flatt, followed by the scrambling of claws on hardwood, a form pressing against the back of his legs, and a snout peaking out from around them.
The fox dipped her head politely. “For you, Mr. Flatt,” she said around the envelope, voice as soft and refined as would be her master’s immaculate white suit.
Flatt crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes further, but then, fearing he may have gone too far, undid that amount of narrowing, restoring their previous state of narrowness. “What is it?”
Calliope gestured her head forward with the envelope, urging Flatt to take it. When he finally did, she explained, “Your invitation to the Shepherd’s Ball. Mr. Cheverly wanted to ensure you personally received it this year, considering your incident with the post.”
“I was in a hurry.” Flatt rolled his eyes. “Post a live cobra in the pillar box one time and suddenly everyone thinks you don’t know how mail works.”
“As I recall, it was two times, Mr. Flatt.”
“Yes, well, I was in a hurry both times.”
Calliope squinted. “Might I ask why you were posting snakes at all?”
Flatt wagged a finger. “Trade secrets, little spy.”
“Of course.” The fox inclined her head, not quite hiding her smirk. “Either way, it seemed a touch of vigilance was due.”
“Oh, I’m sure, Calliope,” Flatt said flatly, as was his right. He then allowed himself a devious grin. “Or should I say, Ca-liar-pe?”
The fox tilted her head. “That is my name, yes.”
Flatt frowned. “No, I said Ca-liar-pe.”
The fox nodded, regarding him with a placid smile, as though encouraging a toddler.
“Bah. You’re just not hearing it because we’re properly English. You’re a liar, is what I’m saying.”
Calliope blinked, pulling her head back and putting one forepaw to her chest. “What makes you say so? Have I ever been untruthful with you?”
Flatt gestured vaguely. “Well, maybe not with–with words, per se, but with your whole…general…being.”
The fox’s ears drooped as her eyes widened. “That’s rather hurtful, Mr. Flatt.” Flatt winced. “Shall I take that to mean you decline the invitation?”
“Oh, I’ll be there. You can count on it.” Flatt had strategically been easing up on his eyes so that now he could safely narrow them once more. “With numbers.”
Calliope closed hers in a foxy smile. “Delighted to hear it.” She then spared a coy glance behind Flatt’s legs. “Say hello to my effigy, will you?” She turned and trotted off as Flatt felt a rhythmic thwapping against his calf.
“Enough of that, Featherby,” Flatt grumbled, darkening his own doorway. He then closed the door, making it even darker.
“It must be lovely to have such autonomy,” lamented the coyote in what he must have thought was just the cleverest hint.
“Says the robot who cannot even open a door.” Flatt tossed the invitation onto an end table and made his way toward the back of the house, where he heard a quiet voice from within his lavatory.
“Ohhh, no no no…” came the mournful, wobbly old tones of Abberson Watley, Flatt’s top agent.
“Watley?” Flatt had forgotten he had company. “What are you still doing in there?”
“Well, this is rather embarrassing,” Watley admitted after a moment, “but it seems you have neglected to replace your drying towel, and now I cannot open the door to get out, for your knob – oh, it is brilliant and tastefully polished to perfection, Flatt – I am unable to grasp it, as my hands are far too slippery.”
“It’s been more than two hours. Have they not by now dried on their own?”
“Well, they had, but you see, drying naturally left them downright clammy, so I had to wash them again. Perhaps I could–I could use my clothing…”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Watley – this is no place for incivility.”
“Yes, of–of course…”
Flatt tried the doorknob himself, but found that he could not get a grip, grimacing as his hand slipped and slid around its slick circumference. “How is the handle wet on this side?”
“I tried so very hard to open it, you see…”
Flatt shook his head. “Well, this is a very fine predicament you’ve gotten yourself into, Watley.”
Watley sighed heavily, voice nearly a sob. “Ohhh, Featherby, why did I build you…”
Flatt scowled, crossing his arms. “Those are not your words…” He stepped back and looked the door up and down. “The hinges are on your side and mustn’t be moistened, so I’m afraid there may be no solution to this one. You’ll simply have to stay the night there.”
“I do so apologize, Flatt…”
Featherby stepped up to Flatt’s side, considering the doorknob. Flatt raised an eyebrow at him. “I suppose you have an idea in that electronic furbrain of yours?”
The coyote stood up on his hind paws, steadying his right forepaw on the doorframe. He moved his left up to the side of the knob, where one of his claws extended and socketed into the screw on its right. The claw began to spin, removing the screw from its housing. Featherby repeated the process for the screw on the left of the knob, and the knob itself fell down with a clang to the hardwood below it.
Featherby then got down and padded off. The unmistakable sound of rummaging came from elsewhere in the house, and a minute later, he returned with a lever handle in his jaws. He propped himself up once more and slid the handle onto the exposed peg, retrieved the screws with a magnetic claw, then fastened them back into the door.
Flatt’s features warped into a calamitous frown as he watched the treachery unfold before him. Featherby turned his head to look at him and maintained eye contact as he pushed the lever down with his paw, sending the door swinging inward.
Watley’s roundsome form brightened immediately as he shuffled out of his erstwhile prison. “Oh, blessed creature – thank you!” He gave Featherby a pat on the head, then hurried to the front door. “I’ll see you back at the office, Flatt.” He retrieved and donned his hat so that he could tip it, and then made his departure.
Flatt eyed his robot sourly. “You needn’t look so pleased with yourself, Featherby.”
“What can I say, sir? Sometimes keeping up entails taking a step back.”
“Oh, Featherby, why–” Flatt waved a hand in dismissal. “Never mind, the moment was ruined.” He marched off, naught but dourness in his wake.
Bene scribete.
Writin' Fish 