My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with a box of plastic nonsense intended for the lesser, two-legged kittens of the household. It seems to be a large, garishly colored plastic circle with two pointy sticks that can be moved, accompanied by an assortment of brightly colored cubes and flimsy paper squares. The entire contraption is supposedly for understanding "time," a concept I have already mastered—it is either nap-time, meal-time, or not-worth-my-time-time. While the small, throwable cubes might offer a fleeting moment of diversion before they are inevitably lost under the furniture, the primary clock face is offensively large, silent, and lacks the fundamental qualities of a worthy toy, such as feathers or a tantalizing scent. It's a potential waste of my prime sunbeam-soaking hours.
The intrusion began, as it so often does, with the crinkle of a cardboard box, a sound that rudely interrupted a perfectly good nap in my favorite armchair. I opened one green eye just enough to register my human placing a collection of brightly colored plastic on the rug. The centerpiece was a large yellow circle with a cheerful, idiotic face. Two hands, one offensively blue and the other a garish red, pointed aimlessly. I gave a world-weary sigh, the soft fur of my tuxedoed chest ruffling with the effort. Another cheap offering meant to impress my simple mind. I would not be moved.
My human, however, is nothing if not persistent. They sat on the floor and began fiddling with the device, moving the blue hand with a soft *click-click-click*. The sound was mildly irritating but not entirely without merit. Then they tipped the box, and a cascade of smaller items tumbled out. My ears swiveled forward. Among the useless flat cards were several small cubes—some blue, some red. They were light, angular, and perfectly sized for batting. My tail gave a single, involuntary twitch. My carefully cultivated indifference was beginning to fray at the edges.
I stretched, feigning a casual descent from the chair, and sauntered over for a closer inspection. I pointedly ignored the giant clock face and the human’s babbling about "hours" and "minutes." My focus was singular: a small blue cube that had rolled slightly apart from the others. I extended a paw, claws carefully sheathed, and gave it a gentle tap. It skittered beautifully across the hardwood floor, its plastic shell making a most satisfying rattle. Ah, now we were getting somewhere. The hunt was on. I crouched low, wiggled my hindquarters, and pounced, sending the cube flying under the sofa. The large clock is an insult, an immobile piece of junk. But this one small cube... this cube has proven its worth. The set may remain, but only for its skittering, losable parts.
