Animal Activities #88
Barnaby wasn't professional. He was a ferret. A ferret by birth and by design, really if it comes down to it.
His profession was being a long, thin animal of a cinnamon hue with 20-hour workdays in a fluffy hammock slung across the opulent suite of chambers in Rosewood Manor.
The shinies-the silvers, the bright metals-that, Barnaby wasn't just an animal during; he was an animal laser-focused, he was an animal of a purpose, and that purpose in life was one singular thing-the shine if it sent back even a wink, was in some burr in the parlor sofa, eventually destined for a hoard.
Then, on a gray Tuesday it was delivered. In the mistress of the household's bed chamber the most regal of all prizes stood, on her dressing stand, a Crystal cut perfume bottle at an impressive height on the dressing stand, with its lid a marvel of brass so intricately worked, it's stem spiraling, it's loop so gracefully, clutched by a navy blue ribbon of a deep satin hue was a silvery key – the one he'd seen in all his fantasies and in the narrow surface reflection in the back of his obsidian-like, infinitely-sparkling, obsidian-chipped, black, tiny, deep eyes. Barnaby was there, and whiskers twitching, and sinews tensed-his only desire: the glint.
Legs and claws Barnaby did not; he advanced like sin in a liquid form; a thin stream of honey colored substance moving along the Oriental carpet, then the voluminous dark drape of plushy velvet toward the stand, he floated to the marble top table not a sound-the key dangled above him and winked at him but slinking he reached, till his belly pressed snug on the smooth cold surface of the table, a sharp pounce spring-two stumpy claws gave small nudges to the satin ribbon, which promptly detached its burden; the heavy bulk, with a violent and swift jerk backwards (Barnaby quite often moved this way) sent the key flying and plummeting to the carpet.
The barely audible clink echoed from the depths like a blast but for a split second Barnaby remained still in the space between the air before; his snout was now full of heavy silver and Barnaby began to perform-the war dance. From one end of the table to the other he trotted, claws skittering on the smooth marble; and then up himself, and then bounced like a ball off the back legs of the stand; his tail still taut above him and carrying his treasure he launched himself towards the doorway, his tiny hind feet clapping quickly against the hardwood floor, carrying his heavy burden-
The breath-catching speed whisking himself through the open doorway where stood the mistress, mouth agape!
Between the heavy silky furbelows he scuttled disappearing into the dark jaws of the parlor sofa.
Somewhere inside the den of velvet and trinkets there are hundreds of crushed spoon heads, hundreds of crumpled balls of tin foil and hundreds of orphaned brass buttons-he laid the Silver Key gently upon them, wrapped his long torso around his stolen piece, laid his chin upon the chilling metal, and exhaled a great happy sigh. They would search and search, the humans, and he would know where the Vault of the Stolen Silver was.
Thanks for reading my post I'm inviting @chant, @mesola and @bela90 to participate.