You're in your in "house dragon" form today, which is to say, a little smaller than the average border collie.
Kit is busy at his desk, doing research and typing notes for a piece of coursework (in advance, because he's a good, dedicated student). He's been busy for hours. He has been busy all day. And he's not paying you nearly enough attention.
You wind around the chair. Lean against his legs. Nudge his arm. Drop your head into his lap. Cheep, chirp, and squeak, because while you're getting to grips with understanding his words, you've still got a ways to go on speaking. You drag over a squeaky bone toy he bought for you and drop that into his lap. Pull off his slippers with your teeth. You'd have knocked over his glass of water if it hadn't been empty for the past hour already. Nothing seems to get through to him. Kit. Kit, please. Kit. Pay attention to Miya, Kit.
In the end, there's only one thing for it. You steal the mouse right off the desk while he's distracted scribbling on a post-it note, and — shrinking yourself mid-leap — hop up to take its place.
His warm, human hand cups over your back, pulling you here, pushing you there. A finger taps your head. You start to purr. He wiggles you again, taps, taps, makes a quietly confused noise because why isn't his mouse working? You purr louder.
14
Kit is busy at his desk, doing research and typing notes for a piece of coursework (in advance, because he's a good, dedicated student). He's been busy for hours. He has been busy all day. And he's not paying you nearly enough attention.
You wind around the chair. Lean against his legs. Nudge his arm. Drop your head into his lap. Cheep, chirp, and squeak, because while you're getting to grips with understanding his words, you've still got a ways to go on speaking. You drag over a squeaky bone toy he bought for you and drop that into his lap. Pull off his slippers with your teeth. You'd have knocked over his glass of water if it hadn't been empty for the past hour already. Nothing seems to get through to him. Kit. Kit, please. Kit. Pay attention to Miya, Kit.
In the end, there's only one thing for it. You steal the mouse right off the desk while he's distracted scribbling on a post-it note, and — shrinking yourself mid-leap — hop up to take its place.
His warm, human hand cups over your back, pulling you here, pushing you there. A finger taps your head. You start to purr. He wiggles you again, taps, taps, makes a quietly confused noise because why isn't his mouse working? You purr louder.
And that's finally when it clicks. "Miya??"