A Certain Mr. Rit Co Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Choreography of Chaos

The silence in Ellie’s office in the days following the Aviary wedding was profound and unnerving. It was the silence of a battlefield after the last cannon had fired, filled only with the phantom echoes of splintering cake tiers and capybara… blessings. Her clipboard, usually a sacred text, now felt like a relic from a more naive, orderly universe.

Which was why, when the consultation request from Felix and Clara Moss landed in her inbox, she viewed it with the weary suspicion of a general offered a truce. The subject line read: “A Celebration of Movement & Mutual Adoration (Humans & Furry).”

“It’s a trap,” Leo declared, peering over her shoulder while hand-feeding S;ren a piece of dried chicken. Benedict, at his feet, sighed in agreement. “Or a social experiment. ‘How many disasters can one planner survive?’”

But the deposit was substantial, and the trauma of the Aviary had to be conquered, not cowered from. Thus, Ellie found herself two weeks later in the sun-drenched loft of the Mosses, a space that was less an apartment and more a temple to terpsichorean passion. One wall was mirrored floor-to-ceiling, scarred by the ghosts of a billion pli;s. A vintage ballet barre gleamed next to a professional-grade pole dance apparatus. The air smelled of rosin, sandalwood, and catnip.

Felix and Clara moved even when standing still. They were a vortex of graceful energy—he, a contemporary dance choreographer with a perpetually thoughtful frown; she, a former competitive ballroom dancer turned instructor with a smile that could power a small city.

“Ellie! You move with such efficient grace!” Clara exclaimed, sweeping forward in a cloud of silk. “A true pas de bourr;e of purpose!”

“Thank you,” Ellie said, her own movement more “clipboard check” than ballet. “You mentioned this celebration is about your shared love of dance?”

“And of them,” Felix intoned, gesturing grandly.

The “them” were the inhabitants of the loft.

Vladimir: A massive, regal Maine Coon with eyes of imperial amber, currently observing the humans from the top of the bookcase as if from a distant throne. His tail flicked with metronomic precision.

Baryshnikova (“Barysha”): A slender, neurotic Russian Blue mix who existed in a permanent state of startled arabesque, usually mid-flight from one piece of furniture to another.

Tango: A Jack Russell Terrier of boundless, twitchy enthusiasm, named not for the dance but for the orange soda stain on his white chest. He vibrated on the spot, eyes locked on Ellie’s swinging pen.

And finally, the true stars: Percival & Petunia, a pair of surprisingly dignified, tailless Manx cats. They sat side-by-side on the sofa, a united front of round bodies and profound stillness, like two furry, judgmental bookends.

“They are our audience, our muses, our… unintended students,” Clara explained, scooping up Tango who immediately tried to lick her chin in a frantic 5/8 rhythm. “We dance for them every day. Vladimir appreciates the drama. Barysha… tolerates it. Tango tries to participate. And Percy and Petunia… they critique.”

“We want our wedding to be a culmination,” Felix continued, striking a pose that was half-explanation, half-improvisation. “A fusion of our human love story, expressed through dance, and their… silent, profound commentary on it. We want them included. Not as props, but as… witnesses. Participants in the gesamtkunstwerk.”

Leo, who had come as “animal liaison and emotional support planner,” muttered, “Gesamt-what now? It means ‘total work of art’. Usually involving pyrotechnics. I’ve checked.”

Ellie’s professional mind, though bruised, began to whir. A ceremony in a dance studio. No processional aisle, but a dance floor. No vows, but a choreographed duet. The reception: an interactive, dance-filled feast. It was ambitious, personal, and terrifyingly dependent on feline and canine cooperation.

The preparation phase became a masterclass in comedic futility.

The Venue Walkthrough: The chosen venue was a refurbished Art Deco ballroom with a pristine maple floor. As Ellie and the couple discussed “energy flow” and “sight lines,” Tango shot across the empty space like a fuzzy, barking torpedo, his claws creating a frantic, skittering tap-dance solo that would have made Fred Astaire wince. Vladimir, released from his carrier, immediately claimed the center of the room as his personal sunning spot and refused to budge, forcing all planning to orbit around his majestic, shedding form.

The Music Selection: Listening to potential first dance songs in the loft was an exercise in interspecies review. A soaring Viennese waltz made Barysha launch herself vertically up the curtains. A smooth bossa nova caused Percival and Petunia to blink slowly in what Felix interpreted as “scathing disapproval.” Only a minimalist, percussive piece featuring woodblocks seemed to garner universal, bemused acceptance from the feline contingent. Tango, of course, approved of anything at volume level 10.

The Suit & Gown Fitting: Clara’s wedding gown, a fluid, cap-sleeved number designed for movement, was immediately targeted by Barysha as the ultimate landing pad for a panic-stricken leap. The resulting “dramatic entrance” involved three panicked seamstresses, a cloud of tulle, and a cat hanging from the chandelier like a furry, accusing pendulum. Felix’s tailored trousers became the object of Tango’s obsessive herding instinct, the dog fixated on the flapping cuffs.

But the true nadir—or perhaps the highlight—was The Choreography Rehearsal.

Determined to integrate their “muses,” Felix and Clara decided to run through their ceremonial duet in the loft. The piece was a beautiful, abstract story of attraction, conflict, and union, set to the woodblock music.

“Begin in separate corners, a universe apart,” Felix directed, as Clara took her place. Ellie and Leo sat on the sofa, a notepad and a bag of treats at the ready.

The music started. The dancers began to move, all flowing limbs and intense gazes.

Phase One: Canine Interpretation. Tango, interpreting the “separate universes” as a tragic social failure, raced between them, whining piteously, trying to physically push their legs together.

Phase Two: Feline Critique. As the dance moved to a sequence of slow, graceful turns, Vladimir descended from his perch. He did not interfere. He simply sat down at the edge of the “stage,” directly in Clara’s sigh line, and began an exhaustive, thorough bath of his nether regions, the ultimate gesture of dismissive boredom.

Phase Three: The Duet Becomes a Trio (Then a Quartet). The choreography reached its climax—a series of fast, interlocking spins. The movement, the swirling silk, it was all too much for Barysha. With a yowl of either artistic inspiration or sheer terror, she became a blur of grey fur, zipping between the dancers’ feet in a chaotic, counter-point pas de chat. Clara, mid-pirouette, had to execute a breathtaking, unplanned leap to avoid a collision.

Phase Four: The Silent Judges Deliver Their Verdict. As the music ended with Felix dipping Clara low in a final, romantic resolution, there was a moment of panting silence. Then, from the sofa, came the sound. Not applause.

A synchronized, sonorous, double snore.

Percival and Petunia, curled together in a perfect circle of fur, had fallen sound asleep.

The loft was still. Felix remained frozen, holding Clara’s dip. Clara stared at the ceiling, her body shaking. For a horrifying second, Ellie thought she was crying.

Then the laughter burst out of her, rich and uncontrollable. Felix joined in, his solemn artiste facade shattered. They collapsed onto the floor in a heap of limbs and giggles, as Tango covered their faces in enthusiastic kisses and Barysha, from atop the refrigerator, surveyed the scene with wide, offended eyes.

Leo leaned over to Ellie, his voice a warm whisper. “See? They’re not critiquing the dance. They’re critiquing the concept of rehearsal. They live in the moment. It’s… terribly profound. And also, the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Ellie looked at her clipboard. The timeline for the wedding day was outlined in neat, hopeful boxes: “Pets arrive – calm acclimatization.” “First Dance – poignant duet.” “Dance Floor Opens – joyful chaos.”

She looked back at the scene on the floor: the laughing couple, the kissing dog, the bathing cat overlord, the sleeping judges.

A slow, genuine smile spread across her face for the first time since the Great Cake Avalanche. The blueprint for this wedding wasn’t just on paper. It was written in purrs, zoomies, disapproving stares, and synchronized snores. It was going to be a disaster.

But for the first time, Ellie thought it might just be the right kind of disaster.