A Tale from Pete the Cat

The artifact arrived in a thin cardboard shell, yellow and green like a confused canary. My human presented it not to me, but to the Small Human, whose primary functions seem to be dropping food and making sudden, startling noises. Inside, the twelve soldiers stood in their plastic tray, a silent, colorful regiment. They smelled of nothing, a disappointment, but also a relief. I watched from my perch on the armchair as the Small Human began her work, dragging a thick, blue stick across a page, leaving a bold, clumsy trail. An art critic I am not, but this was pedestrian at best. It was the tool, not the art, that held my attention. Inevitably, one of the soldiers fell. It was not pushed or thrown, but simply rolled off the edge of the table with the gentle finality of a raindrop. It was a brilliant, fiery red, and it landed on the hardwood floor with a soft, plastic *thump*. The sound was an invitation. I descended from my throne in a single, fluid motion, my paws silent on the wood. The Small Human was engrossed in making what appeared to be a purple sun. The Senior Human was distracted by her glowing rectangle. The red cylinder lay there, a challenge. I approached with caution, sniffing it first. Still nothing. I extended a single, white-gloved paw and gave it a tentative nudge. It rolled. Oh, it rolled beautifully—a smooth, predictable trajectory. Emboldened, I gave it a proper smack. It shot across the floor, spinning end over end before coming to rest near the leg of the sofa. This was a chase of quality. As I prepared for a second volley, I noticed a faint red smudge on the white fur of my paw. My blood ran cold. This was it. The precursor to the spray bottle, the damp towel, the ultimate horror of The Sink. I began a frantic grooming session, but the Human saw. She approached, and I braced for the worst. But the worst never came. She simply chuckled, dipped a finger into her water glass, and wiped the red mark from my paw. It vanished. Instantly. No scrubbing, no soap, no indignity. I stared at my paw, pristine once more, and then at the red marker, now lying innocently by the sofa. A wave of understanding washed over me. These were not simply toys for messy children. They were brilliantly engineered tools of recreation, designed with a failsafe against the very consequences I feared most. They were safe for me to attack with impunity. The Crayola Corporation, I concluded, had accidentally created the perfect prey. Their mission was complete, even if they never knew it.