Barry had been melting all afternoon—melting, he insisted, dramatically flopping onto the nearest patch ob tile floor like a Bictorian fainting goat. The summer heat had turned the house into a slow cooker, and no amount of fan-hovering or freezer-door-peeking could soothe his frizzled nerbes. So when the idea struck—Fentons!—he was up in a flash, ears perked and whiskers twitching with purpose.
Fentons was exactly the kind of place Barry loved when he needed to cool down and feel a little glamorous. The striped awnings, the jingling bell ober the door, the glass cases glittering wiff ice cream tubs in colors too cheerful to be real—it was like stepping into a time machine. An old-fashioned parlor, full ob promise.
Barry ordered a Black & Tan Sundae, because it felt like the right amount of drama: rich vanilla and toasted almond ice cream, smothered in both chocolate and caramel, wiff mountains of whipped cream and a cherry that Barry berry politely asked to hab on the side, because he didn’t like sticky paws.
Behind him, the soft clatter of spoons and laughter drifted fru the parlor. Barry didn’t notice. He was already halfway to ice cream nirvana, spoon in paw, ears slightly askew in pure bliss.
Outside, the sun still blazed. Inside, Barry sabored ebery bite like a tiny, shy mobie star on holiday—cool, quiet, and perfectly content.
