Cold Hearted

Thank you for reading my 2nd fiction. I tagged it Anthro but it's not really smut, so you furry-haters out there just chill. I took some liberties with the character of Mr. Cat in this one, and I think it came out really well.
A note on pronunciation: Meowkhail should be read as meow-kai-ull, and Nyanya should be intoned the same as "Anya."
I'll explain my decisions at the end. For now, please enjoy "Cold Hearted".


“So that's it? You and him are through?”
“You can't just forgive him and try to work it out?”
The scene was familiar. It was a lovely day in Gold Crown Town, and the bright, warm sun streamed into the ballet classroom through the panoramic windows. Class had just begun, and everywhere figures bent and contorted, warming up for the demanding workout they were about to get. Having escaped a particularly vindictive Pike and an unusually cruel Lilie (What was with those two? The nice the weather, the meaner they got! Maybe they're happiness vampires, ruminated the awkward redhead), Duck stretched out on the barre, lithe leg extended and waist bent forward. Technically, she wasn't supposed to be over here, since this was the side of the class reserved for more advanced students. Four of her seniors from the advanced class were stretching gracefully nearby, Rue nowhere in sight. She was probably off practicing a pas de deux with Mytho in another room. The girls' gossip was juicy, and Duck was straining to hear the conversation going on a few feet to her right.
“Nah... I'm a bit tired of him anyway. I mean, I know he loves me and all, and I still love him a bit, but it was never supposed to be permanent. I mean, it's not like we were gonna get-”
In a flash, three hands covered the fourth girl's mouth to block the word from escaping. “You know never to say that word in here!” Whispered one of them.
“Yeah, are you trying to get another lecture?”
But it was too late. Across the room, their feline teacher's ear twitched, and in a flash he was there.
“Nyoooww girlsh. I undershtand the need to talk about myarraige, but can we pleash do it in a more appropriate venue? I'll give a short leksure about the meritsh of myarraige after our advanshed clash today.”
The four ballerinas struggled to look excited. Duck slowly turned the other way, hoping against hope that Mr. Cat wouldn't notice her there, because everytime he did-
“Mish Duck! What are you doing over here? The right side of the clashroom is for our hardworking, shkillful advanshed shtudents! Shomeone like you, who ish sho preoccupied with the deshire to MYARRY ME that you never even schow up on time, belongs over there. With that Sloth girl.”
“I'm soooo sorry, Mr. Cat, But you see- It's like this-!”
“No exshcusesh!” Spat out Mr. Cat. “You may prove your good intentions by mopping the floors of all the clashrooms after clash is finithed!!
“Eeeeeh!?” wailed Duck, though she wasn't surprised in the least. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time was her specialty.
“That ish... UNLESH YOU'D RATHER MYYAAAAARRRRY ME!” Roared Mr. Cat, easily drowning out the piano and the light chatter in the room with his powerful voice. The music and chatter instantly ceased. Everyone's eyes turned to him. He looked around once, twice, and a third time... and began to growl and run around in a circle on all fours.


When class ended, Pike and Lilie invited Duck to go with them to the bakery for some shortcake and hot gossip, but Duck had to decline.
“That cat bastard is making you clean the floors again?” asked Pike, clearly pretending to feel sorry. “I dunno, Duck, but this can't be coincidence. Maybe he wants to talk to you in private- Y'know, to propose?”
“Third time this week, and it's only Thursday! He treats you like a scratching post! Maybe you'd better marry him after all, just to make it stop! Can you even imagine?! It would be like a lifetime of torture!” Upon squealing out those words, Lilie began spinning around, holding her blushing face in her hands.
They departed, leaving Duck with her other pair of friends: A mop and bucket. At least these ones understood her, She reflected. The mop, because it got dragged through the dirt all day, and the bucket, because... Well, a bucket full of dirty water really characterized her mood right now. She got to work.


Two hours passed, and Duck had finally finished the last satellite classroom. Now the only one left was the main room. She had spent two hours watching herself mop in the numerous mirrors in the many other classrooms, and it depressed her a bit. She should be dancing in front of those mirrors- Gracefully, beautifully, like Princess Tutu might! But instead, she just mopped like a dumb dropout. She emptied the bucket and filled it again from the custodial sink, for the eighth time that afternoon. Outside the classroom, she paused for a second. Mr. Cat was giving his lecture about marriage, and the 5 ballerinas (Rue was back) were sitting cross-legged, backs straight and attention focused. “If I could put up with discomfort that well,” Reflected Duck, “Maybe I could be a Prima Ballerina too...”
“And sho! Like I shaid before, it'sh important to be faithful to your boyfriends, for there ish no greater joy in the world than a long, loving relationschip with another pershon, Human or cat, or anything elsh. The temptashion to break up over schom little sching may be great, but far greater ish the joy of growing closer ash you grow older! Especially you , Joshephine!” Josephine looked startled. “I overheard you shaying you were going to leave your boyfriend. Why, might I ashk?”
Josephine's head bowed a bit. “Well, sir- We just havn't been too close lately. When we're together, we always do the same things! It used to be nice, but these days it's just a chore.”
“Doesh he realize thish? That you aren't enjoying your time together anymrowre?
“I- I don't think so.”
“I schee. Scho you've come to a croshroadsh. You can either shplit up and break hish unshushpecting heart, or you can tell him your feelingsh and grow closher together.”
“I didn't think about it that way! You're right!”
“Of coursh I am, I'm the teacher.” Said Mr. Cat simply, crossing his arms and nodding his head. “Now for considering dumping your boyfriend- 100 crunches! And you girls- for not talking her out of it, 50 crunches!” Waving a commanding paw, Mr. Cat turned around and began to leave amidst moans of complacent misery. Not stopping after he passed through the door Duck was standing outside, he said, “Mish Duck, come with me.” Duck dropped the mop and bucket and scrambled to follow behind.
“I have a feeling you're not an ordinary girl.” He said, as they walked through the hallway, “But I don't know why and It'sh not important. The point I'm trying to make ith, I have a feeling you're deshtined for a great romanshe.”
“A great- Romance? Me?” Asked Duck, blushing.
“Yesh. There's schomething about you that jusht tellsh me you're going to be the Juliet of this shchool before long. My whishkers don't lie about this kind of thing. I've been trying to talk to you alone abouth this all week, but you always finisch the floorsh and vamoosh before I can pull you ashide.” They entered his office. “ Tea?”
“Ah- OK, thanks.” said Duck, nervously looking around. The office was round, a very rare shape for rooms to be in inside of square buildings. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and the shelves were lined with books. Many of the shelves had little objects in front of the books, such as antique teacups, wicker flying machines, and music boxes. Hanging on he wall in a glass display case behind the semicircular desk in the center was a battered-looking pair of men's toe shoes. The room was so full of obscure objects, each one giving a small hint as to Mr. Cat's personality and past, that not a single surface was bare. A violin, a bundle of cat-tails (The plant, not actual tails) and a light fixture made of empty bottles of mineral water, jars of spiced preserved fruit, and a large, ornate vodka bottle in the center containing a oil lamp. The multicolored glass shed warm, flickering light all over the small office, bouncing off reflective objects and creating colorful, dancing spots on Mr. Cat's serious face.
“Very well.” Mr. Cat tossed a log from a tidy bundle into the pot-bellied cast iron stove and put the kettle on it. “Then I'll begin my tragic story.”

***

When Meowkhail Meowleksanderovich Cherneko was a young cat, he liked to play the Violin. His skill at the instrument was unrivaled, even by the older players in his neighborhood. With a sweep of his bow, he could make you laugh or cry. His sweet tones and embracing melodies could bring back memories you forgot you had, or still your heart with fright. Everyone payed attention when the handsome Meowkhail picked up his Violin. The kitties (girls, by human terms) would line up to watch him practice, swooning and blushing, fanning their reddened faces even though it was snowing outside.
By the time he was an adolescent, he was sick of the attention. He'd hated how he was expected to simply mate with each kitty and move on, simply because he could. It's not like he didn't like them, his fans, but he wanted something more. He wanted fall in love like humans did. He read the works of the great human authors, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, even learning German and English so he could read epic tales of love by Wagner and Shakespeare. He wanted to be Romeo, he wanted to be Tristan. He didn't want to be the passing fancy of some pretty face, used and forgotten, then congratulated by his friends for his “conquest”.
He was admitted with great todo to the Mewniversity of Meowscow, to study Violin with the grandmaster Ivan Meowlstien. He was glad to find the kitties there weren't so easily impressed by his Violin virtuosity. They'd prick up their ears, often pierced with all sorts of studs, rings, and stones, and listen for a bit. But the tears didn't flow on their non-blushing cheeks like those of the simple country folk he'd grown up around. He enjoyed this challenge.
A year went by. He'd grown to be the best young violinist in the entire music program, and all the professors said he had a bright future ahead of him. He could tour the world, they told him. He could watch a Wagner opera in Mewnich, or a Shakespeare play in London. That excited him, but there was something else on his mind, or to be more precise, someone. Her name was Nyanyastasia Nyandrapova and she was the most beautiful cat he'd ever seen.
She was in the ballet program, and every day on his way to and from classes he'd see her in the wndow, pouring herself fluidly from pose to step to pose. In the mornings, when the sun was rising over the frosty hilltops, when the frozen birdbaths began to thaw, she was dancing, her pure white fur glowing with the first rays of the sun. Her breaths came in clouds, legs decked in warmers and arms wrapped in colorful scarves. She'd go up on point, and extend a leg out behind her, her arms spread wide. He didn't know what it was called, but the pose told him of her loneliness, and invited him to fill it. He would stop for a second, adjust his scarves and his heavy black wool peacoat, and just drink the scene in.
At night, his wrists aching and his notebook full of practice material, he'd pass by again. Dusk cloaked the Mewniversity in blues and indigos, and sometimes snow would fall around him. The light would be on insde the large ballet classroom, and there she'd be, her colorful warmers and scarves shed, now only in her pearly white leotard. She'd perform combination after combination, looking at the mirror and adjusting a minor step each time. Her breath came heavy and slow, but she kept going. Even in his sleep, he watched her through that window.
Her supple body was so fine and desirable, its curves looping around in his head even during violin class. Her beautiful face smiled at him every time he closed his eyes. He was smitten with this kitty who he only knew through observation. Finally, he was in love.
But how to express it? If he wanted to mate with some kitty, he'd simply knock on her door and she'd grab his scarf and yank him inside. But that's not how people in love acted, he was sure. People in love, and that includes cats, must act romantically. They must get to know each other, go on dates, and share candlelit meals or picnic baskets. It took him some intense thought, time he could have been practicing, but soon he had the perfect plan.


Nyanyastasia Nyandrapova was the rare kind of cat who hated to sleep. She did it as little as possible, for two reasons. The first reason was sleeping too much made you grow tall, which did not befit a ballerina. The second reason was being awake was simply much more interestng. Humans slept about 6 to 8 hours a day, roughly a quarter to a third of their lives. Sleeping this much, it's no wonder by the time a human ballerina is truly a master she's lost her supplety and looks. If Humans only slept two to four hours a day, she thought, there would be ballerinas who were young, beautiful, AND masterful. But that's humans. Cats, on the other hand, liked to sleep 12, 14, or even 16 hours a day. Her classmates would work for an hour and sleep for 2! No wonder she was the best, she thought, then quickly chased that Idea out of her mind. She couldn't afford to think like that. She still had a long way to go before she was a true master. She sat up in her room, having been kicked out of the practice room by the janitor, bored out of her mind and anxious to get to work again tomorrow. She was just settling down to read a book, the new translation of Romeo and Juliet, when she heard a sound from outside. Her powerful pink ears identified the sound right away: Someone was tuning a violin.
Why would someone do that outside her dorm? She threw on a robe over her nightgown and stepped out into the chilly air of her balcony. It was him, her “secret” fan! She'd seen the gangly violinist pass by her classroom every day in the morning and evening. He'd often stop to watcher her. Whenever he did, she'd pretend she couldn't see him, but the fact that he was there made her want to try even harder. He was handsome in an unkempt way, like if he put a bit more effort in he'd be a real knockout. But his always-tousled fur and ill-fitting clothes kept him from that peak of attractiveness. He noticed her noticing him and looked at the ground, his tuning ceasing for a second. But he steeled himself, withdrew his bow, and began to play.
The song began slowly, its steady quarter notes in 4/4 time lifting her slightly from her perch on the balcony, seeming to lighten her body with its happy tone. He began to rock back and forth, perhaps out of nerves, as his play slowed a bit, then doubled in tempo all of a sudden. He was playing such complex music, so passionately, with so much emotion; Nyanyastasia could hardly breathe. The peace carried her off to another place, pure happiness overtaking her being, her eyes closing to better hear the music. The song's crescendo and powerful climax rocked her, causing her to place a hand over her heart and choke down a sob of pure emotion. When the song was over, the boy carefully placed the instrument in its weatherproof case, He took a step forward, and looked up at her. “I wrrrote that pieshe for you, my love.” He said. “It's called 'The Dansher with fur like fresh shnowfall.'”
Nyanyastasia swallowed her joy down and managed to say, “It mrrras so mmmrronderful. So beautiful. Could such a piece mrrreally be for myee?”
“My dear, thish pieshe palesh in comparishon to your beauty. I shimply tried to ekshpressh my love for you shrew it'sh notes. When I shee you dansh, I shensh a lonlinesh inshide you, a lonlinesh you and I share. You want to fall in love, don't you, my darling?”
The white cat covered her mouth, a blush spreading across her face. “How did myou- what do myou mean you could sense?”
“When you dansh, my schweet, I can schee into your shoul. Your danshing ish sho shkillful, and your beauty is sho divine, I cannot help but to feel- that theshe lasht few monthsh I've gotten to know you... Through that window.”
Nyanyastasia becan to weep, tears dripping down her face and landing on her robe. “I don't mreeevn know what to say... Thank you so much... You're so wonderful.” With a skillful leap, Meowkhail jumped the two stories up the the balcony and held the white kitty's hands in his. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her pink nose (a very romantic thing to do, he thought). She wrenched her hands free and threw herself onto him, hugging him tight and kissing him deeply on the lips. On that balcony, pressed together, unaffected by the chill breeze, the new lovers stood. Each of them reflected inwardly, “So this is the feeling of being in love... It's worth waiting all those years for.”


Days passed happily, and the winter semester drew to a close. They fell into new routines: Before his classes, Meowkhail would visit the dance studio, and although there were beautiful females everywhere, he'd only look at Nyanyastasia. When classtime drew near, she'd take a quick break and they'd embrace shortly and share a kiss by the water fountains, then he was off. A few hours later, she'd pace into his violin classroom, seat herself in the rear, and lean her head back, pretty white neck exposed to the cool air of the small concert hall. A wide smile would cross her lips, and she'd listen to his solos for as long as her break would allow. Hours later yet, they'd climb to the top of a tall tree and share a picnic basket for lunch. Gefilte fish, a favorite of Professor Meowlstien, became a favorite of theirs too. Osetra cavier, pink raw tuna, and creamy salmon mousse would cross their lips on the boughs of that mighty tree. Then it was back to class, for more instruction, and finally, they'd rendevous for an activity in the evening.
Some days Meowkail would instruct Nyanyastasia (or Nyanya for short) to play chords on the piano, to accompany him. Some days, Nyanya would teach Meowkail (Or Fishbone, as she had called him ever since the time he'd impressed her by swallowing an entire anchovy and hacking up the complete skeleton) the basic poses of Ballet, though he'd always forget them right away. Their evenings passed this way, sometimes punctuated by a play or recital, sometimes mellowed by simple book-reading next to a flickering fireplace. Sometimes, Nyanya would crochet colorful hats and scarves while Fishbone would whittle little animals out of pieces of smooth wood with a sharp knife. Sometimes they would glue bottles together and make decorative light fixtures for their friends. Sometimes, on the weekends, they wouldn't leave Fishbone's bed for an entire day, except to get a dish of water or to wash their faces. Somtimes they'd fight, or argure, but they'd never hold grudges and they'd never sling blame. Usually, Nyanya would lick her thumb and straighten out Fishbone's fur on top of his head. Usually, Fishbone would stroke Nyanya's cheek before each kiss. Always, every time they were together, they were happy.
Winter ended, and suddenly the days were longer. The sun, which brightened Nyanya's fur to a glowing gold, hung merrily in the sky, and the couple spent afternoons of their spring break paddling about joyfuly on the lake near the Mewniversity. They still ate their lunches in the tall tree at the edge of campus, though without a time limit, they would simply play around after their meals, chasing each other around the branches, nimble and always balanced on their pink paw pads. Life was a game, and they were playing it as a team. The two, each with a bright future and the promise of desirable jobs in the city upon their graduations, were happier than any cats had a right to be. Spring vacation ended and they breezed through their final few weeks of classes.
Arm in arm, they conquered the summer, spending their paychecks they recieved from tutoring kittens on expensive caviar, vodka, and souveniers from the numerous villages they visited on their long train trips. They travelled to Germany and saw Wagner operas, France to witness the finest Ballet preformances in the world, and London to see a performance of Romeo and Juliet. They dipped their toes into the Atlantic Ocean, and on the ship back across the English Channel, Fishbone played the violin while Nyanya danced. The Humans on board were amazed to see such talented cats, and someone tossed a hat upside-down in front of Meowkhail. Within minutes, it was full of English and French bills and coins.
It was late August now, and the end of summer loomed above them tall and dark. They had to be back in Meowscow by September for their Junior years. Passing once more through Europe and homeward bound on the great iron train, Fishbone was melancholy. “Cheer up, silly!” Said Nyanya brightly. “Mre'll still see each otherrrr everrrry day mrrhen school starts again.”
“I know, my love, but I jusht want to be with you alwaysh. You make me sho happy... I'm not complete without you.”
“Mrell, I guess mrre'll have to get mrrarried, then.” She said, winking. A grin spread across Meowkhail's face.
“Myarried? Nothing would make me more happy in all the world.”
“Mrell? Aren't myou going to ask me?”
Fishbone leaned forward and kissed her on the nose. “I'll find the right way to ashk you. Of course, it hash to be romantic!”
The semester began anew. Back to work for the two talented performers, and less time together. There was one key difference this time around, though. Mewokhail was keeping a secret. He was talking private ballet lessons from one of the professors, during the few times when they were both sure Nyanyastasia was either asleep or otherwise indisposed. He picked up the steps and stances easily now, determined to impress his lovely girlfriend. The professor coreographed him a dance for her to propose with, a swooping, majestic piece communicating his desire to protect and cherish her, and ending with the mime for “marraige.” He was ready. He sent Nyanya a letter indicating she should wait for him on the first day of winter break at the top of the tall tree, because he had something very important for her. The date was several weeks away at that point. Looking at the letter with its bold black ink, he determined the tone to be too serious and added “Rain or shine! XOXO- Fishbone” to the end in cheerful green ink.
On the first day of winter break, there was a storm approaching. Shutters were shut, windows were barracaded, and no one was outside. Nyanya was nowhere to be found; none of her friends knew where she was and none of them could offer any clue to Mewokhail, who had forgotton all about his proposal in his panic to find her. He searched high and low, all over the school, calling her name and beckoning her to safety. He climbed the tallest bell tower, and from that vantage point, he saw a cat's sillouette in profile on the high branches of the tall tree. “No... No!” He wailed, everything coming back to him. How could he be so stupid!? It was the day, the day he'd practiced so hard for! He raced to the edge of campus on all fours. It began to rain.
He skidded to a stop at the trunk of the tree. “Get down from there! Nyanya! It's dangeroush!” He called, but she didn't stir. He cursed under his breath in worry and fear for her safety. He began to climb, his balance upset and his speed deminished by the heavy rainfall. He was 15 feet, then 25, then 40 feet up. As he came to the top, his fears became reality: A flash and a bolt of lightning in the distance, and the forboding boom of a clap of thunder too soon after. Terrified, he yowled for Nyanya to wake up. She didn't stir in the least. He rolled her head towards him. Stroking her cheek, he pleaded. “Nyanya? Can you hear me? It's me, Fishbone. Hey, wake up!” He grabbed her rudely abound the waist, not putting any thought into propriety at this point. He began to descend, slowly, carefully, with the kitty under one strong arm. There was another bolt of lightning, followed immediately by a loud BOOM. The tree was wavering back and forth, and it was so hard to hold onto the rainslicked wood, bark so soft he had to test each branch before he sank his claws in.
And then, none of it mattered. A bolt of lightning struck the tree, splintering it into hundreds of pieces. It felt like getting hit in the chest by a cannonball; Meowkhail and Nyanyastasia went flying down, down, down, and he felt himself letting go of her. “NOOOO! NOOOO! NYANYASTASIA! NOOOO-”
And the world went black... for all of 5 seconds. He shot bolt upright, and ran over to her crumpled form. The rain battered her, washing the blood away from her sides, split by the sharp timber. There were deep gashes in her chest and midsecton and one spearhead of wood protruded from her belly. One eye opened. “Fishbone? That you?”
“Yesh, Yesh!” Cried Meowkhail sobbing but smiling. “I'm here. It'sh going to be all right. You're going to be jusht fine.”
“Oh please. I'm not stupid. Hurry up and show me mmrrhat you mranted to show mre, I don't have much time left.”
“Don't talk like that! We'll get you fixed up, you'll shee!”
“Mmmry love. I don't mmrregret this life I spent mmrrith you. I mrouldint have minded- cough cough- staying a bit longer, though.” She smiled up at him, the rain washing away a trickle of blood from her mouth. Her white fur was matted with pink blood and rainwater. “Now, I believe you have a Ballet recital for me.”
“You knew? All thish time, you knew?”
She tried to laugh, but it enged up as another cough. “You think you can learn Ballet in this school mmrrithout me knowing about it? Go ahead, lover. Knock me dead.”
Meowkhail Meowleksanderovich Cherneko stepped into position and began his dance. The dance that was supposed to convey such strength, such an intention to protect, became a dance of regret, of sadness. The dance told his dying lover, “If only...” and “I'll never forget you.” She watched with milky eyes, determined not to pass on out of respect for his devotion. Bringing his arms together, he ended with the mime for “marraige.”
“Oh Mewokhail... Never stop dancing...” she breathed, and then finally, “I do.”
Nyanya Nyandrapova laid back and closed her eyes for the last time. Her expression was peaceful, satisfied, without the least sign of sadness or regret whatsoever. Meowkhail ran to her and knelt over her limp body. He ran a paw over her cheek. He kissed her on the nose. He whispered, “You got off easy.” He repeated it. “You got off easy!” He shouted it. “YOU GOT OFF EASY! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!” He bellowed, competing only with the thunderclaps. “HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME LIKE THIS! WHAT DO I DO NOW! HOW CAN I LIVE WITHOUT YOU? HOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW?!!!!!”
He ran to the tree and punched the trunk with all his strength. He felt his kuckles give but did not register the pain. Again and again he slammed into the tree trunk, with his fists, his claws, his shoulder, his head. He bashed against it until blood soaked into the wet bark. One last punch, his fingers not obeying the order to ball into a fist, and his world darkened and everything was silent.

***

Duck was speechless. “Oh, Mr. Cat! How horrible!”
Mr. Cat nodded. “Yesh. They bandaged my handsh and schet them with shplintsh, but I wash never to play the violin again. I took up Ballet, ash per My dear Nyanya's final request, and have been dancing to exshpressh my schadnessh and regret ever shensh. Which bringsh me to the moral of today'sh shtory!”
“What is it, Mr. Cat?!” cried Duck.
“If you have the chansh to myarry, take it ash shoon ash posshible! Don't wait for shomething like 'the right moment'! If I had proposhed to Nyanyastasia on that train, we'd shtill be together today! Every day I look back and regret my youthful gallantry!” He folded his hands. “Now I don't know if you're schupposhed to end up with Mr. Mytho or Mr. Fakir, but I want to hear mmmmrredding bellsh ringing schometime very, very shoon!”
Duck stood up, slamming both hands palm-down on the table. “Yes sir Mr. Cat!” She cried.
“Very good. You may go.”
Duck ran out of the tiny office, a determined look on her face. Mr. Cat collected her empty teacup and wiped it dry with a towel, replacing it in the set's decorative box. He looked forlornly at a shelf opposite his desk. On the shelf was a colorful yarn hat, a music-box with a dancing white cat ballerina on it, a whittled mouse, and a sepia-toned photograph of his youthful face with a wide grin, arm slung over the shoulder of a similarly smiling white female, holding up ticket stubs to “Romeo and Juliet” for the cameraman to see. Mr. Cat began to tear up, then a sob broke from his throat. He began to cry, deep sobs racking his chest.
“Oh Nyanya. Oh my love. Whyever did you leave me?”

The end.

Author's Notes:
Did I make you cry? I teared up pretty hard writing the end of this, and I'm a grown-ass man(child). Here are my comments about this story:
-Russians? Yes. They're Russians. I made this decision because I really wanted Mr. Cat to have a different talent as his girlfriend, and ballet befits a beautiful girl. Russia is home to numerous Violinists and Ballerinas both, so it seemed a natural choice.
-Violin? You bet. He seems the type, now that you think about it, huh? Professor Meowlstein is based on a player called Nathan Milstein, so that's funny, trust me.
-Meowkhail? Well, I wanted to make a uniquely Russian name more Cat-like, so I modified a few and I liked Meowkhail the most. I knew his name had to have a "Neko" in it somewhere, so I modified "Konstantin Chernenko," A past leader of the Communist Party.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Please, please review!