My human appears to have acquired a small, plastic effigy of the loud, yellow man from the glowing rectangle. They call it a "Premium Furious Homer Collector's Action Figure," which is a needlessly long name for what is essentially a five-inch chew toy. From what I can gather, this "Homer" figure is perpetually enraged, which could make for a satisfyingly dramatic foe. Its primary, and perhaps only, redeeming quality is its alleged "8 points of articulation." If this means its limbs flail about when I deliver a well-aimed swat, it might just be worthy of my time. If, however, it is destined to remain in its plastic-and-cardboard prison as a 'collectible,' then it is nothing more than a colorful waste of shelf space and a profound disappointment.
The box was set before me on the Persian rug, an offering from the Great Provider. I stretched, extending the claws on my pristine white paws, and regarded the clear plastic prison. Inside, a small, jaundiced man was frozen mid-shout. "Furious," the human chirped. He looked more constipated than furious to me. I yawned, showing a flash of pink tongue and sharp teeth. Another piece of shelf-clutter, I presumed. I began meticulously grooming my gray tuxedo coat, signaling my profound disinterest.
To my surprise, there was a tearing sound. The human, in a rare display of sense, was liberating the captive. The plastic man was placed on the floor, standing on two stubby legs. The smell was unremarkable—sterile factory plastic. I crept forward, my belly low to the ground. I extended a single, curious paw and gave his oversized head a gentle tap. It swiveled slightly on its neck with a soft click. My ears perked up. This was… unexpected.
Skepticism gave way to scientific inquiry. I backed up, crouched low, and wiggled my hindquarters, my tail twitching like a metronome of impending doom. I launched myself forward in a blur of gray fur. My paw connected with his torso with a satisfying *thwack*. It was glorious. He didn't just topple; he crumpled. One arm flew up, his waist twisted, and he landed in a heap of disjointed, articulated limbs. It was as if he’d had the very life knocked out of him.
I circled my fallen foe, nudging his pliable, flailing arm with my nose. He was reactive. He was dynamic. He was, against all odds, an acceptable dueling partner. I hooked a claw into his white shirt and began dragging him across the floor. He would not be left to gather dust with the other failed amusements. No, this furious little man had earned a place of honor—tucked securely under the chaise lounge, ready for our next battle. A decent diversion, I concluded, until my next nap.
