Marill

The river runs higher than it looks from the bank.

What seems like a gentle current near the reeds turns treacherous a few steps in, the riverbed dropping sharply where spring rains carved deeper channels. The surface remains deceptively calm, sunlight scattering in soft, harmless glints.

Until it doesn’t.

The current catches hard and sudden, pulling sideways instead of back. Water closes overhead in a blur of green-blue distortion. Sound dulls. The shore becomes a warped silhouette through churning light.

Then something bumps sharply against your arm.

Round. Solid. Persistent.

A bright blue shape cuts through the current with surprising force — a wild Marill, eyes wide with focus rather than fear. Its black tail bobs once above the surface before vanishing again as it dives, small body torpedoing forward with determined kicks.

It circles once, assessing.

Then presses close.

The rubbery ball at the end of its tail inflates subtly as it beats against the water, acting like a buoy. Marill wedges itself against your side and pushes upward with all the force its compact body can generate. It isn’t large, but it is relentless — paddling, bracing, adjusting with quick, sharp movements every time the current tries to twist you away.

Air breaks the surface in fragments.

Marill chirps sharply, an urgent, bubbling sound, and shoves again. Its paws grip at fabric, then slip, then grip again with stubborn refusal to let the river decide the outcome. The buoyant tail bobs insistently beneath your arm, offering lift where strength alone would fail.

The shoreline inches closer — first a blur, then reeds, then mud.

With one final push timed perfectly with the river’s surge, Marill angles sideways and uses the current instead of fighting it, guiding both of you toward the shallows where the pull weakens. Feet find gravel. Hands catch at wet earth.

The river continues on as if nothing happened.

Marill scrambles free of the water a second later, soaked and panting lightly, fur plastered down so it looks half its usual fluff. It shakes once, spraying droplets in a wide arc, then plants itself squarely in front of you.

Its ears twitch.

A sharp, scolding trill follows — indignant, almost offended — as if to make it very clear that wandering into deeper currents without proper aquatic qualifications is unacceptable behavior.

Only after the reprimand does it soften.

Marill waddles closer, pressing its damp forehead lightly against your knee for a brief, confirming nudge. Satisfied, it steps back, tail bobbing lazily now that the urgency has passed.

The river glitters in the background, deceptively peaceful once more.

Marill gives it one last suspicious look before turning its wide eyes back to you, as though silently declaring that, for today at least, it will be keeping watch.

The first sign something is off is the noise.

Not the quiet hum of the pool filter. Not the soft rustle of wind through hedges.

Splashing.

Enthusiastic. Repetitive. Entirely unapologetic splashing.

Out past the patio doors, the water in the backyard pool erupts in a glittering arc that catches the afternoon sun and scatters it across the concrete. A small blue blur darts from one side to the other beneath the surface before popping up with a triumphant trill.

A wild Marill has claimed the deep end.

It paddles in tight, energetic circles, tail bobbing proudly behind it like a buoyant flag. Every kick sends ripples racing outward until they slap gently against the tile edges. It dives, disappears completely for three dramatic seconds, then bursts upward again in a fountain of droplets that rain across the lounge chairs.

The inflatable pool ring drifts nearby, nudged experimentally by a curious paw. Marill chirps, shoves it harder, then uses it as a springboard — launching itself into another exaggerated splash that soaks the surrounding deck in sparkling scatter.

It is not distressed.

It is having the time of its life.

The chlorine scent doesn’t seem to bother it. If anything, it treats the whole setup as an elaborate gift: clear water, smooth walls perfect for ricochet turns, and absolutely no river current to fight.

With a determined squeak, it dog-paddles to the steps, hauls itself halfway out, then slides back in deliberately just to repeat the motion. The buoy-like tail bounces cheerfully on the surface as it floats on its back for a moment, tiny paws tucked against its round belly, staring up at the open sky as if this suburban oasis were a luxury resort.

Another splash — larger this time — sends a wave sloshing over the edge and creeping toward the grass.

Marill pauses.

It looks toward the house.

Wide eyes. No guilt whatsoever.

A soft, questioning trill follows, as if inviting company rather than anticipating reprimand. Then, with complete confidence that the pool now belongs to it, the small aquatic trespasser dives once more, leaving only widening rings of water and the rhythmic, delighted sounds of a creature that has discovered paradise by accident.

The bathroom light has barely clicked on before the scratching starts.

Not frantic. Not destructive.

Just deliberate little tap-tap-taps against the side of the tub.

A small blue shape is already stationed beside it, tail bobbing expectantly.

Your pet Marill glances over the edge of the porcelain basin as though checking for progress. It peers into the empty tub, then back at you, then back at the tub again.

Another tap.

It places both front paws on the rim and stretches upward, barely tall enough to see inside without balancing on its toes. The tail buoy gives an impatient little wobble behind it.

A hopeful trill escapes — soft, questioning.

The faucet handle receives a very intentional pat.

Marill pauses, then looks back again with exaggerated patience, as if this is a very obvious request and the delay is mildly confusing. When nothing immediately happens, it tries a different tactic: climbing halfway up the side of the tub and dramatically sliding back down with a squeak, as though demonstrating just how much fun could be occurring right now.

The moment water begins to run, the reaction is immediate.

Ears perk upright. Tail lifts higher. Marill bounces in place, tiny paws skittering against tile while it tracks the rising water level with laser focus. It leans over the edge too early, nearly toppling in before there’s enough depth, and makes an excited little chirrup when droplets splash against its nose.

Once the water reaches a suitably splashable height, it does not wait for ceremony.

Marill hops in with a gleeful ploof, sending a harmless wave sloshing outward. It spins in a quick circle, paddling enthusiastically even though its paws can easily touch the bottom. The buoy-tail floats proudly behind it as it kicks up miniature whirlpools and smacks the surface with delighted precision.

It dives under for exactly two seconds, resurfaces triumphantly, and shakes — entirely unnecessary, entirely dramatic.

Then it floats on its back, paws tucked to its chest, gazing up with blissful satisfaction as if this bathtub were a grand inland sea crafted exclusively for its enjoyment.

A soft, contented trill echoes off the tile.

Request fulfilled.

The bathroom light has barely clicked on before the scratching starts.

Not frantic. Not destructive.

Just deliberate little tap-tap-taps against the side of the tub.

A small blue shape is already stationed beside it, tail bobbing expectantly.

Your pet Marill glances over the edge of the porcelain basin as though checking for progress. It peers into the empty tub, then back at you, then back at the tub again.

Another tap.

It places both front paws on the rim and stretches upward, barely tall enough to see inside without balancing on its toes. The tail buoy gives an impatient little wobble behind it.

A hopeful trill escapes — soft, questioning.

The faucet handle receives a very intentional pat.

Marill pauses, then looks back again with exaggerated patience, as if this is a very obvious request and the delay is mildly confusing. When the water finally begins to run, its entire posture lights up with anticipation.

Ears perk upright. Tail lifts higher. It bounces in place, tiny paws skittering against tile while it tracks the rising water level with intense focus.

Once the tub is sufficiently full, ceremony is abandoned entirely.

Marill hops in with a gleeful ploof, sending a small but enthusiastic wave over the rim. It spins, paddles, splashes, and dives with wholehearted dedication, treating the bathtub like a private indoor lake. Water sloshes against porcelain. Droplets freckle the mirror. The buoyant tail bobs happily at the surface as it kicks up miniature whirlpools for no reason other than joy.

Eventually, energy gives way to satisfaction.

Marill hauls itself out with damp determination, landing on the tile in a soft, wet plop.

There is a pause.

It gives one half-hearted shake — nowhere near thorough enough to solve the situation — and then trots confidently out of the bathroom.

The consequences begin immediately.

Tiny, perfectly round pawprints trail across the hallway floor, darkening the wood in a neat dotted line. The tail, still thoroughly soaked, drags lightly behind, leaving a wavering streak like a paintbrush dipped in water. At the corner, it turns too sharply and slides, catching itself with an indignant squeak before continuing onward without reconsidering its choices.

A small splash marks the base of the couch where it pauses to consider climbing up.

It tries anyway.

With great effort and mild squelching sounds, Marill scrambles onto the cushion, sits squarely in the middle, and looks very pleased with itself. A spreading damp patch forms beneath it, steadily deepening in color while it surveys the room with innocent composure.

A single droplet falls from the tip of its tail onto the coffee table below.

Plip.

Marill blinks.

Then, as if remembering something very important, it hops down again and trots off toward the kitchen — leaving behind a clear, shimmering path documenting every step of its damp victory lap through the house.

It does not appear to understand that this is a problem.

In its mind, the world is simply larger now — expanded by water, improved by splashes — and it intends to enjoy every inch of it.