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moonsheenSo, according to an interview it is either mentioned or joked that Miles Edgeworth has a dog.
Miles Edgeworth didn’t know what to do with this particular Christmas gift.
“Just something the force thought you deserved!” Detective Gumshoe had trumpeted, with a hand behind his head and the gift in question squirming under his arm. It did not look like the generally expected (and much quieter) annual card. “As a thanks, you know?”
That ‘thanks’ had, the moment the opportunity arose, begun to diligently gnaw at the legs of the expensive coffee table.
It also came with a leash, a ribbon, and a bowl. Miles was left to fend for himself, and to get ‘acquainted’, all with the most hearty (wall-shaking) of seasons greetings.
And he didn’t know what to do.
When Miles was thirteen Manfred von Karma had bought his youngest daughter a cat. It had been of the Persian breed, expensive, and from a good breeder. It had also been an ugly-minded beast, with a pinched face and smooth coat that had been groomed to utter perfection. It had taken to shredding the sleeves of ‘brother’s’ uniforms and attempting to smother him at night. Franziska had found it all absolutely delightful. Miles had found it a miserable holiday and had come out of the whole experience vowing to never, ever own an animal so long as he lived, so help him God.
In short, he would’ve preferred a card.
This Christmas gift did the rounds about the entire apartment at least three times. This Christmas gift was annoyingly sentient. It made noise. It whined. It jumped onto the furniture. It pawed at the carpet. It looked at him. When it made an attempt to jump onto his lap, that was where he drew the line. He threw the remains of dinner in the thing’s bowl and went to bed, shutting the door on the loud smacking of its jaws.
Quarter after two he was awake again. He always was. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep. His briefcase was on the coffee table and he was not one to waste an idle hour. Not even on a holiday. Especially on a holiday. Miles Edgeworth hated holidays.
So he sat down on a chair in the living room, combed his sweat slick hair out of his eyes, switched on the lamp, and thought to get some work done. The papers shook slightly in his hand. He ignored it. His pulse had yet to even out. He took a sharp breath and ignored that as well. Something wet touched his fingertips and he jumped. He’d forgotten entirely about the dog. He ignored that, too. Soft fuzz pressed against the hand that hung over the chair’s arm. He wasn’t going to acknowledge it. Still, persistence seemed to be on the creature’s side. Its paws must’ve been ruining the upholstery, because it pressed up until his palm was flat against the top of its head. Then he had no choice but to run his thumb against one of the rises of its sharp, pointed ears. The fur there was softer.
When Miles deigned a glance out of the corner of his eye, the animal was pushed against his hand in such a way that the loose skin across its forehead was folding a little over its eyes, though it seemed quite happy to have to squint. It had a round face, a narrower snout, a pair of large firmly fluffed white cheeks that seemed whiter in the dim light of the single lamp.
It smiled quite stupidly. Which should’ve been ridiculous—no, no it was ridiculous. It was a dog and assigning these things to a dog was a sign of a late hour and far too much thought. So it wasn’t that he believed this, it was just that there was no other description to assign to the way its black jaws were pulled back at the corners, or the dumb slither of its tongue out of the side of its mouth. There was just no other word….
At five a.m. sharp Miles Edgeworth took the animal for a walk. She was making the most obnoxious noises after her nap on his chest and it clearly fell on him to do something about it. He took the lead off the counter. He made personal note to order a collar some time later that day. Pess could not be expected wear such a plain ribbon. That would simply not do.
Miles Edgeworth didn’t know what to do with this particular Christmas gift.
“Just something the force thought you deserved!” Detective Gumshoe had trumpeted, with a hand behind his head and the gift in question squirming under his arm. It did not look like the generally expected (and much quieter) annual card. “As a thanks, you know?”
That ‘thanks’ had, the moment the opportunity arose, begun to diligently gnaw at the legs of the expensive coffee table.
It also came with a leash, a ribbon, and a bowl. Miles was left to fend for himself, and to get ‘acquainted’, all with the most hearty (wall-shaking) of seasons greetings.
And he didn’t know what to do.
When Miles was thirteen Manfred von Karma had bought his youngest daughter a cat. It had been of the Persian breed, expensive, and from a good breeder. It had also been an ugly-minded beast, with a pinched face and smooth coat that had been groomed to utter perfection. It had taken to shredding the sleeves of ‘brother’s’ uniforms and attempting to smother him at night. Franziska had found it all absolutely delightful. Miles had found it a miserable holiday and had come out of the whole experience vowing to never, ever own an animal so long as he lived, so help him God.
In short, he would’ve preferred a card.
This Christmas gift did the rounds about the entire apartment at least three times. This Christmas gift was annoyingly sentient. It made noise. It whined. It jumped onto the furniture. It pawed at the carpet. It looked at him. When it made an attempt to jump onto his lap, that was where he drew the line. He threw the remains of dinner in the thing’s bowl and went to bed, shutting the door on the loud smacking of its jaws.
Quarter after two he was awake again. He always was. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep. His briefcase was on the coffee table and he was not one to waste an idle hour. Not even on a holiday. Especially on a holiday. Miles Edgeworth hated holidays.
So he sat down on a chair in the living room, combed his sweat slick hair out of his eyes, switched on the lamp, and thought to get some work done. The papers shook slightly in his hand. He ignored it. His pulse had yet to even out. He took a sharp breath and ignored that as well. Something wet touched his fingertips and he jumped. He’d forgotten entirely about the dog. He ignored that, too. Soft fuzz pressed against the hand that hung over the chair’s arm. He wasn’t going to acknowledge it. Still, persistence seemed to be on the creature’s side. Its paws must’ve been ruining the upholstery, because it pressed up until his palm was flat against the top of its head. Then he had no choice but to run his thumb against one of the rises of its sharp, pointed ears. The fur there was softer.
When Miles deigned a glance out of the corner of his eye, the animal was pushed against his hand in such a way that the loose skin across its forehead was folding a little over its eyes, though it seemed quite happy to have to squint. It had a round face, a narrower snout, a pair of large firmly fluffed white cheeks that seemed whiter in the dim light of the single lamp.
It smiled quite stupidly. Which should’ve been ridiculous—no, no it was ridiculous. It was a dog and assigning these things to a dog was a sign of a late hour and far too much thought. So it wasn’t that he believed this, it was just that there was no other description to assign to the way its black jaws were pulled back at the corners, or the dumb slither of its tongue out of the side of its mouth. There was just no other word….
At five a.m. sharp Miles Edgeworth took the animal for a walk. She was making the most obnoxious noises after her nap on his chest and it clearly fell on him to do something about it. He took the lead off the counter. He made personal note to order a collar some time later that day. Pess could not be expected wear such a plain ribbon. That would simply not do.