Sunbeam Reclaimed After Diplomatic Failure

The new thing arrived in a transparent prison, staring out with dull, painted eyes. The human cooed over it, using that ridiculous high-pitched voice usually reserved for praising my majestic tail. "Look, Pete! A Nausicaan! Isn't he cool?" The creature was eventually liberated and placed on the rug in my sunbeam. *My* sunbeam. It stood there, an ugly, lumpy-headed intruder in a garish vest, holding a tiny, equally plastic weapon. It was an affront. A silent declaration of war on my sovereign territory. I approached with the practiced stealth of a seasoned hunter, my gray form a mere shadow on the floor. I circled the invader, my nose twitching. It smelled of industry and disappointment. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave its leg a delicate *ping*. The resulting sound was a hollow, unsatisfying *tink*. There was no give, no life, no frightened squeak. This was not prey; this was an insult to the very concept of the chase. I flattened my ears. Was this a test? A challenge from the humans to see if I had lost my edge? I decided a diplomatic solution was required. I laid down, rolled onto my back, and exposed the pristine white expanse of my tuxedoed belly—the universal sign of "You are not a threat, and now you must rub this." The plastic dolt did nothing. It just stood there, its permanent scowl mocking my gesture of peace. The negotiations had failed. With a flick of my wrist, I hooked a paw around its ankles and sent it skittering across the floor, its useless little weapon flying in a separate, pathetic arc. Having dispatched the trespasser into the dark abyss beneath the armchair, I stood up, shook out my fur, and stared pointedly at the human. The message was clear: this embassy is closed. This Nausicaan was not a toy. It was not even a worthy adversary. It was, at best, a temporary and unfulfilling floor hockey puck. Now, if you'll excuse me, the sunbeam has been reclaimed, and my nap is grievously overdue.