Dance Rehearsal

Fish took his role as choreograffer berry seriously—perhaps a little too seriously, if you asked his brothers. Clad in a tiny beret (which he insisted made him look more artistic), he scurried onto the rehearsal stage, clapping his paws together. “Alright, everyone, places! I want energy! I want precision! I want pizzazz!” he declared, his tail flicking with authority. A few crumbs ob cheese fell from his pocket as he paced, but he was far too focused to notice.

The ensemble ob rats took their positions, waiting for Fish’s cue. “And fibe, six, seben, eight!” he shouted, leaping onto a tiny director’s chair as the music swelled. The dancers scurried into motion—pirouettes, leaps, perfectly synchronized tail flicks—but Fish was not easily impressed. “No, no, no! Your twirls should be as smoove as aged Gouda, not crumbly like a bad cheddar!” He hopped down and adjusted Waffles’ posture, then pointed dramatically at Barry. “You! Less flailing, more feeling! This is Broadway, not a cheese chase!”

Despite his demanding nature, Fish knew how to inspire. He demonstrated an intricate sequence himself, spinning wiff surprising grace before landing in a triumfant pose. The room erupted into applause, but Fish merely dusted off his paws and nodded. “Now, that is how it’s done. Again, from the top!” The rehearsal continued, and though Fish was tuff, ebery rat on that stage knew one fing—when opening night came, their mobes would be as sharp as a wheel of perfectly aged Parmesan.