A Tale from Pete the Cat

The thing arrived in a box far more interesting than its contents. The larger human presented the black brick to the smaller, shrieking one, who immediately began poking it, causing it to emit a series of offensive clicks and flashes. I observed from a safe distance, tail twitching in annoyance. It was an object of noise and light, offering no scent, no satisfying texture for my claws, no redeeming qualities whatsoever. For a full day, the small human toted it around by its glorious black string, documenting such riveting scenes as a half-eaten banana and the pattern on the rug. I remained unimpressed. It was just another piece of human junk cluttering my kingdom. That evening, a tantrum. The small human, denied a third cookie, hurled the camera across the room where it skittered under the armchair. Silence. The offense was forgotten, the toy abandoned. Later, under the silver glow of the moonlight filtering through the blinds, I began my nightly patrol. I remembered the discarded brick. Curiosity, a most regrettable feline impulse, got the better of me. I slunk toward the armchair and peered into the darkness. There it was. I extended a single, perfect paw and tapped it gently. The lens cover, which I hadn't noticed before, slid open with a soft *whirr*. The screen flickered to life, illuminating the dust bunnies like constellations. Intrigued, I gave it a more forceful nudge with my nose. The device beeped and a tiny red light began to blink. I had, apparently, initiated a "video recording." I was no longer merely an observer; I was the subject. I proceeded to document my nightly ritual: a thorough grooming of my left shoulder, a meticulous inspection of the baseboards, a tense standoff with a shadow that looked suspiciously like a large bird. Then, I batted the device, sending it spinning. It captured a dizzying vortex of carpet fibers and chair legs before I pounced, ending the recording with a triumphant *click* as my paw hit a button. I had created a film. A masterpiece of domestic suspense. The next morning, the human retrieved the camera. "Oh, look at all this," she mumbled, scrolling through the night's footage. "It's all blurry and… is that your ear, Pete?" She didn't understand. She saw random noise; I saw the raw, unfiltered truth of the world from a height of twelve inches. This Awinto device, meant for the fumbling artistry of a child, had accidentally become my medium. It was not a toy to be chased, but a tool for documenting my own magnificent existence. It is worthy, not for its string, but for its accidental genius in capturing my own.