My human has presented me with another plastic effigy for my consideration, this one a small man-doll in a garish red and blue suit they call a "Spider-Man." At a mere six inches, it's a suitable size for a determined shove off the coffee table, a classic test of gravity I am always willing to perform. The true potential, however, lies not in the rigid, posable figure itself—a glorified paperweight, really—but in its multitude of tiny, delectable-looking accessories. I see interchangeable hands (perfect for getting lost under the furnace), some flimsy-looking "web wings" that practically beg to be chewed, and, most promisingly, several pieces of stringy, web-like plastic. While the doll is destined to be a mere statue, these smaller components might just offer a moment's distraction before I resume my far more important duties on the sunbeam.
The box crackled as the human opened it, an offensive sound that disturbed my afternoon slumber. I watched through half-lidded eyes as they removed the little man-figure and began arranging his limbs. He was propped up on the edge of the bookshelf, one arm outstretched in a ridiculous pose, a silent plea for attention he would not receive from me. I gave a dismissive flick of my tail. Another piece of colorful plastic to clutter *my* domain. I was thoroughly unimpressed and began calculating the precise trajectory needed to knock him behind the heavy encyclopedia set, where he would remain until the next deep cleaning.
My human, satisfied with their work, abandoned the scene, leaving the figure's empty plastic tray and its remaining contents on the rug. My moment had come. I stretched, extending each claw deliberately, and hopped down to the floor for a closer inspection. The man-doll was still perched above, but my attention was immediately captured by the items in the tray. There, nestled in its form-fitting prison, was a long, thin, wonderfully white strand of plastic. It was one of his "web-shooters," apparently. To me, it was a string. A high-quality, durable-looking string.
My plan to topple the figure was instantly forgotten. This was far more interesting. With a delicate paw, I hooked the web-string and deftly flicked it out of the tray. It landed on the hardwood with a faint *skitter*, and I pounced. Oh, the joy! It was light enough to be tossed, firm enough for a satisfying bite, and long enough to be wrestled into submission with my back paws. I batted it under the sofa, retrieved it, and paraded it around the room, a triumphant hunter with my prize. I even noticed another delightful accessory: a pair of attachable "web wings," which had a crinkly texture that was simply divine to gnaw on.
The Spider-Man figure remains on the bookshelf, untouched. He is irrelevant. He is merely the vessel, the delivery system for these far superior toys. As long as my human understands that the man-doll is just the packaging for the truly excellent collection of strings and chewable bits he comes with, then he is welcome. For now, he is a silent monument to the day I acquired my new favorite web-string. A worthy purchase, but not for the reasons the human thinks.
