Writing Challenge, Parisian Edition, My Turn!

Okay so it might be a little silly but I had a ton of fun working on this! Enjoy...

We hadn’t seen each other since Paris, almost two years ago, but she still looked exactly the same: the same way of wrinkling her nose, as though constantly smelling something distasteful. The same haughty look in her eyes. The same black, sleek fur coat. The same habit of twitching her whiskers when she was lying.
“Mirabella,” I barked, as she came sauntering into the room, tail swishing. Normally I have a good bark, low and loud. I may be a mutt—pound born and bred, thankyouverymuch—but I got the pipes of a champion. That’s one of the reasons Tom and Carol picked me out from the clink. Tom’s a retired cop, spent most of his career busting dealers and pimps on the strip. He’s made a lot of enemies in his time. But when I say her name, it comes out like a Maltese’s pipsqueak.
“Bruce,” she purrs, making it sound my name has about a thousand u’s.
I can’t say I was happy to see her. I can’t say I wasn’t happy, either. One thing I can say: I never expected to see the lap-cat of Portia Derbish, heiress of the Derbish Burger Chain, sniffing around a dump like the Bayside View Condos in Boca Raton, Florida. Only view we’ve got is a parking lot and a cracked above-ground pool, plus the old broads in the building who like to set out their lawn chairs and suntan topless, even though their skin’s already the color of old shoe leather. The handbag-hags, Tom calls them: beat up as an old purse.