My human has presented me with what they seem to think is a "toy." From my initial assessment, it is a collection of eight small, rigid plastic figures modeled after the noisy characters from that screen the lesser humans stare at for hours. They are brightly colored and come with even smaller, detachable plastic bits they call "weapons." Frankly, the main figures themselves appear entirely useless—they are not soft, they do not crinkle, and they are too solid for a satisfying chew. They seem destined to stand motionless, gathering dust. However, the tiny, loose accessories have a certain appeal; their size and weight suggest they would skitter magnificently across the hardwood floor with a well-aimed bat, potentially disappearing under the sofa for a prolonged and engaging rescue mission. It is a gamble on whether the fleeting joy of batting a tiny piece of plastic is worth the effort of rising from a perfectly good sunbeam.
I was in the midst of a truly exceptional nap, dreaming of a world made of slow-moving, gravy-filled mice, when the sound of tearing plastic shattered my bliss. My eyes slit open. The human was kneeling on the floor, arranging a line of stiff, garish little statues. An offering, apparently. I stretched with theatrical slowness, my gray fur shimmering, and padded over to inspect this latest offense. The smell was disappointing—cold, sterile plastic. I gave one of the figures, a lurid pink bear-thing, a tentative sniff. Nothing. I nudged it with my nose. It simply fell over with a dull clack. I yawned, exposing my fangs in a clear display of utter boredom, and turned my back on the pathetic display. My velvet cushion was calling.
As I began to walk away, a tiny sound, a *click-skitter*, snagged my attention. My ears, two perfect gray triangles, swiveled to locate the source. The human, in their typical clumsiness, had dropped one of the minuscule "weapons" that came with the figures. It was a tiny gray rifle, no bigger than my claw, and it lay gleaming on the dark wood of the floor. Suddenly, the world narrowed. The cushion, the human, the garish statues—they all faded away. There was only the Prey.
I dropped into a low crouch, my white-tipped tail twitching almost imperceptibly. My focus was absolute. This was not a toy; this was a challenge. With a wiggle of my hindquarters to calibrate my trajectory, I launched myself forward. My paw, a soft but deadly instrument, connected with the plastic piece, sending it skittering at high speed toward the gap under the entertainment center. *Yes.* The perfect hunt. It disappeared into the darkness, a prize to be stalked and retrieved at my leisure. The eight statues remained on the rug, forgotten and irrelevant. My human seemed to think I liked their gift. They were, as usual, mistaken. I did not like their gift; I had simply found a single, worthy component within the pile of junk. It would do. For now.
