My Human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with what appears to be a bird that has tragically crossbred with a bath plug. They call it a "collectible," which is human-speak for "something you're not supposed to bat off the shelf." It's a rubber duck, but it's dressed in a frankly absurd blue uniform and clutching a small, useless box. From my perspective, it lacks any redeeming qualities of a proper toy: it doesn't flutter, it doesn't crinkle, and it certainly doesn't contain catnip. It’s made of vinyl, which offers a subpar mouthfeel and no satisfying crunch. While the display box it came in might offer a fleeting moment of cramped satisfaction, the duck itself seems destined to be an immobile shelf ornament, a silent testament to wasted potential and a profound waste of my napping time unless I can find a way to launch it across the room.
The ceremony began, as it always does, with the crinkle of an Amazon box, a sound that promises either life-altering gourmet treats or profound disappointment. The Human cooed, peeling back layers of cardboard to reveal a smaller, clear plastic prison. Inside, a duck stared out with vacant, painted-on eyes. My tail gave a single, dismissive flick. Another static dust-collector. The Human, however, seemed thrilled, extricating the creature from its confines and setting it on the rug before me with a triumphant, "Look, Pete! It's Bones!"
I approached with the caution reserved for new vacuum cleaners and unexpected cucumbers. It was undeniably a duck in shape, but it was rigid and smelled faintly of a factory. It wore a little blue shirt, as if it were attending some dreadful formal event, and held a tiny black and gray object that was clearly not a mouse. I extended a single, perfect claw from my soft gray paw and gave it a tentative tap. It wobbled, a pathetic, silent protest, before settling back into its smug stillness. This was not a worthy adversary.
My initial assessment was bleak. It offered no thrill of the chase, no rustle of feathers, no desperate squeak. It just sat there, a monument to inaction. I circled it, my white tuxedo front pristine against the dark wood floor. I sniffed its plastic head, hoping for a hint of bird, but found only the sterile scent of PVC. I gave it a more forceful shove with my nose. It skidded an inch, a movement so devoid of grace or spirit that I almost felt pity for it. My nap schedule was far too important to be interrupted for this.
But then, a glimmer of inspiration struck as the Human placed it on the edge of the mantelpiece, a place of honor for their strange idols. And I understood. This wasn't a toy to be played *with*; it was a target to be played *against*. Its purpose was not to engage me, but to challenge my skill, my precision, my ability to create chaos with a single, well-aimed swat. The fall would be magnificent. The clatter, divine. The Human's ensuing yelp? A delightful bonus. The duck was a bore, but its potential for gravity-assisted entertainment was, I had to admit, almost worthy of my attention. Almost.
