A Tale from Pete the Cat

The silence of my mid-morning nap in the sunbeam was shattered not by a sound, but by a smell: the sterile, inorganic scent of a factory. I opened one green eye. The Human was kneeling on the rug, holding a small white box. They cooed, “Look, Pete! A new friend!” Out of the box came a creature of horrifying geometry—all smooth plastic and unnerving seams, with dead black eyes. It was a dog, but a hollow, soulless version, an empty vessel of canid-ness. I gave a low, rumbling growl of pure contempt. This was not a friend; this was an effigy, an insult. The Human fumbled with a controller, and the plastic mockery whirred to life. It took a few jerky steps forward on its hidden wheels, then stopped and emitted a series of tinny, obnoxious barks. I remained motionless, a statue of gray fur and judgment, observing the enemy's maneuvers. The Human pressed another button, and the abomination began to "dance," wiggling its rigid body to a dreadful synthesized beat that grated on my very soul. It did a "push-up." It performed a "handstand," balancing precariously. I was not impressed; I was appalled. This wasn't play; this was a desecration of the natural order. This was the work of a being with no appreciation for true athletic grace. Then came the true test. The Human switched it to "follow" mode. The plastic dog's head swiveled, its dark eyes locking onto me. I stood, stretched with deliberate slowness, and began a casual patrol of my territory. The little white automaton hummed along behind me. It followed me past the leg of the coffee table. It trailed me to the edge of the kitchen. It was a mindless, plastic stalker. An idea, cold and brilliant, formed in my mind. I changed course, heading for the Gauntlet—the narrow, treacherous passage behind the floor-length curtains and the wall. I slipped through the heavy velvet with liquid ease, as I had a thousand times before. I waited. A moment later, I heard it: the tell-tale *thump* of plastic against the wall, followed by the frustrated whirring of wheels spinning uselessly against the thick fabric of the curtain. The spy was ensnared, its programming utterly useless against superior tactics and an intimate knowledge of the terrain. The Human sighed and went to retrieve their ridiculous toy. I emerged from the other side of the curtains, hopped onto the arm of the chair, and began grooming a pristine white paw, the very picture of innocence. The plastic dog was a clumsy, noisy, deeply stupid piece of work. It was not a worthy adversary, nor a plaything. However, as an instrument for demonstrating my own tactical genius to the slow-witted Human, it would serve its purpose. It may stay. For now.