A Tale from Pete the Cat

It appeared without warning on the bookshelf, a new, silent giant in my domain. One moment, the space between the dusty collection of "classics" and the potted fern was empty; the next, it was occupied by him. He stood ramrod straight, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the living room window, utterly ignoring my regal presence on the rug below. The human cooed and called him "Sarge." I called him an affront. For three days, a cold war simmered between us. I would sit and stare, narrowing my eyes, my tail a slow, metronomic whip of discontent. He would stand there, plastic and smug, his tiny fabric uniform perfectly pressed, his little black rifle held at the ready. He was an occupying force, and this house wasn't big enough for two alpha predators. On the fourth day, I decided on a campaign of psychological warfare. I began by meticulously grooming myself directly in his line of sight, a clear display of my superior flexibility and cleanliness. He did not flinch. I then executed a perfect pounce-and-roll maneuver on a dust bunny, a demonstration of lethal agility. He remained impassive. Finally, in a bold escalation, I leaped silently onto the bookshelf itself, landing with a soft thud that didn't so much as rattle his plastic helmet. We were face to face, my twitching nose just inches from his painted-on scowl. He smelled of sterile packaging and quiet desperation. I reached out a single, soft paw, claws sheathed, and gave his helmet a gentle *tap*. Nothing. A harder *pat*. He wobbled precariously. This was it, the moment of truth. I was about to deliver the final, toppling blow, a coup de grâce that would send him plummeting into the abyss of the shag carpet below. But as my paw made contact with his arm, it brushed against the rifle he was holding. The small, black plastic object detached with a faint click and skittered across the polished wood of the shelf. My focus shifted instantly. The giant was forgotten. This new thing—this small, light, perfectly shaped object—was everything. It was prey. I nudged it with my nose, and it slid beautifully. I batted it with my paw, and it flew from the shelf, landing on the hardwood floor with the most exquisitely satisfying *clatter*. The chase was on. I abandoned the silent soldier to his post, a disarmed and irrelevant monument. He could keep his high ground. I have concluded that the large figure is not the toy at all; it is merely the packaging. He is a glorified, vertical treasure chest, and his true value lies in the tiny, bat-able prizes he holds. He has been deemed worthy, not as a playmate, but as a dispenser of fine, high-velocity floor-skittering implements. I have already hidden the rifle under the china cabinet and am currently planning my next raid for his canteen.