My human, in a moment of questionable judgment, has presented me with what the larger primates call a "WWE Money in The Bank Briefcase." It appears to be a garishly blue plastic shell with a handle, ostensibly for carrying... important documents? For me, the appeal is not in its intended purpose, which seems utterly pointless. However, the presence of latches to be fiddled with, a mysterious interior cavity that could serve as a passable temporary lair, and, most importantly, a flimsy paper "contract" ripe for shredding, suggests it might not be a complete waste of my precious energy. The potential for a new, slightly cramped napping spot is what truly piques my interest, though the cheap plastic aesthetic is an affront to my refined sensibilities.
It arrived with a thud, a large, offensively blue rectangle deposited on my favorite sunning spot on the living room rug. I flicked an ear in its direction but refused to grant it the dignity of a direct gaze. My human made encouraging cooing sounds, as if this plastic monstrosity was a freshly grilled salmon. I began to meticulously groom my white bib, a clear signal of my profound disinterest. The world could end, but my fur would be immaculate. The human, defeated, eventually retreated to the kitchen, leaving me alone with the intruder.
Silence descended. My curiosity, a traitorous beast, began to gnaw at my carefully constructed indifference. I rose, stretched with deliberate slowness, and padded silently toward the object. It smelled of the factory and the cardboard box it came in—a scent of low-cost amusement. A tentative sniff confirmed my suspicions. I gave it a soft pat with a single paw. It slid a few inches across the hardwood, making a hollow, scraping sound. Mildly entertaining. My gaze then fell upon the two latches. Now *this* was a worthy challenge. I hooked a single, perfect claw under the edge of one. A bit of pressure, a wiggle, and—*CLICK*. The sound was crisp and satisfying. I repeated the maneuver on the second latch. *CLICK*. I am a master locksmith.
The lid popped open a fraction of an inch. I nudged it with my nose, peering into the dark, plastic cavern within. And there it was. The prize. A single, glorious sheet of paper. The so-called "contract." All pretense of cynicism vanished. I pounced. I seized it in my teeth, shook my head with the ferocity of my wild ancestors, and reveled in the delightful *rrrrip* as it tore. In moments, the official document was reduced to celebratory confetti, scattered in tribute to my victory. With my primary mission accomplished, I inspected the empty case. It was no velvet cushion, but it was a fortress. I stepped inside, turned in a circle three times, and curled into a tight ball. The acoustics amplified my purr to a rumbling growl. It was ugly, it was plastic, but it was a box, and it was now mine. The human would learn that the true prize wasn't in the briefcase, but the cat who conquered it.
