Plastic Sentinel Earns a Spot on the Watchtower

The monolith arrived in a glossy box, which I dutifully inspected for structural integrity before the human shooed me away. Once freed, the plastic creature was placed on the mantelpiece, a zone usually reserved for framed pictures of my less-impressive baby photos and a hideously fragile glass vase. The human posed it, wings flared, little cannons aimed at nothing. It stood there, a silent, colorful sentry, and I immediately dismissed it as an inanimate bore. It didn't smell like fish, it didn't crinkle, and it certainly didn't wiggle. Useless. For two days, it was merely part of the scenery, another oddity in the human's collection of strange, un-lickable objects. But on the third night, a storm rolled in. Thunder rattled the windows, a deep, angry growl that always set my fur on end. I was hunkered down under the coffee table, pretending to be brave, when a flash of lightning illuminated the room. In that stark, white moment, the Gundam was thrown into sharp relief. Its golden wings seemed to blaze, its white armor shone like bone, and its impassive face looked out into the tempest, utterly unafraid. It was a warrior staring down the sky itself. A particularly violent clap of thunder shook the house, and I flinched, my ears flattening against my skull. My gaze shot back to the mantel. The vibration had been just enough to shift the figure's weight. One of its tiny, articulated arms, the one holding a blue rifle, had drooped slightly, as if weary from the long watch. It looked less like a toy and more like a soldier at the end of a long battle. An odd sense of kinship washed over me. Here we were, two guardians of this carpeted kingdom, facing the roaring chaos outside. When the storm passed and the morning sun streamed in, I leaped gracefully onto the mantel. I approached the plastic sentinel, sniffing its feet. They smelled of nothing. I gently nudged its lowered arm with my nose, a gesture of solidarity. It didn't move, of course. It was, and always would be, a piece of plastic. But it had held its post. I gave a low, approving purr and settled beside it, my soft gray fur a stark contrast to its hard, painted shell. The mantel was now a shared watchtower, and I had decided its new guardian was, against all odds, worthy of the post.