So, the human has presented me with a small, green plastic idol. Apparently, when you place this "Kermit" creature on its special box (which is, I note, sold separately and is tragically not made of cardboard), it begins to make noise. They call this "audio entertainment." I call it a potential nap-ruiner. The figurine itself is far too stout for a satisfying bat-and-chase, lacks any sort of feather or string, and seems entirely un-chewable. While the box it sits upon might offer a new, slightly elevated vantage point from which to judge the household, the primary function—making pre-recorded sounds—seems like a dreadful waste of the quiet, contemplative atmosphere I work so hard to cultivate. It's an object for a small, clumsy human, and I suspect its only value to me will be the challenge of knocking the little green man off his pedestal.
The new object arrived with the usual fanfare. The human, my primary staff member, cooed over the little green figure, holding it aloft as if it were a freshly caught vole. I observed from my perch on the sofa arm, tail twitching in mild irritation. It smelled of plastic and disappointment. The box it was meant for, a soft-cornered cube, was placed on the rug. I gave it a cursory sniff; it was uninteresting, lacking the structural integrity and alluring scent of a proper shipping box. The whole affair was, I concluded, beneath my notice. I was preparing to turn my back for a thorough grooming when the human placed the frog onto the cube.
There was a soft *click* as it settled, a magnetic pull I noted with a flicker of interest. Then, the sound began. A gentle banjo and a voice, not shrill or jarring, but surprisingly mellow, began to sing about rainbows and lovers. My ears, which had been flattened in preparation for an auditory assault, perked up. This was not the high-pitched squeak of a cheap mouse toy. It was... tolerable. Almost pleasant, in a way that might accompany a particularly good sunbeam nap. I stretched, descended from the sofa with practiced elegance, and padded silently toward the cube. The frog sat there, impassive, his painted-on smile mocking me.
My skepticism, though momentarily lulled by the music, returned. A toy's worth is not in its passivity, but in its reaction to my superior predatory skills. I sat before the cube, narrowing my eyes. The song continued, something about it not being easy being green, a sentiment I, with my distinguished gray and white tuxedo coat, could not personally understand but found philosophically intriguing. I lifted a soft, white-gloved paw. I would test this plastic amphibian's resolve. A gentle tap. Nothing. A firmer *pat*. The frog, to my delight, toppled from his perch onto the rug. And in that same instant, the music stopped.
Silence. Glorious, perfect silence, earned by my own handiwork. The human sighed and placed the frog back on the box, and the gentle music resumed. I watched, a slow blink my only comment. Then, with a deliberate flick of my wrist, I swatted him off again. The music died. A thrill ran through me. This was not a toy for listening. Oh, no. This was a game of cause and effect, of sound and silence, of absolute power. I, Pete, was the conductor of this miniature orchestra, and my baton was a swift, decisive paw. The human thinks this is for their entertainment. The fool. The frog is mine now. He sings when I allow it, and is silent when I command it. Worthy? Oh, yes. Utterly worthy.
