My human seems to have acquired a compressed brick of dirt for one of the smaller, louder humans that sometimes visit. They call it a "Rock and Gem Dig," which implies a laughable amount of effort is required. One is meant to chip away at this dusty block with primitive wooden tools to unearth common rocks. Honestly, the very concept is beneath me; toys should be presented ready for play, not require manual labor. While the block itself seems like a stationary bore, the potential for a fine, pervasive dust cloud is intriguing. Furthermore, once the small humans have tired of their "work," the unearthed "gems" could prove to be acceptably skittery objects for batting under the sofa, and the little wooden hammer looks like it would slide magnificently across the hardwood floors. It's a poorly conceived toy for its intended user, but its component parts may yet prove a worthy, if messy, diversion.
The box arrived with an air of profound disappointment. It smelled of cardboard and educational intent, two scents I find equally offensive. My human placed it on the floor, beaming with the sort of misguided pride they usually reserve for successfully assembling furniture. I observed from my perch on the back of the velvet armchair, offering a slow, deliberate blink to signal my utter lack of interest. It was a brown brick. They had brought a brick into my home and expected me to be entertained. I began grooming a perfectly clean patch of fur on my shoulder to demonstrate just how little I cared.
My human, undeterred by my majestic indifference, began the "dig." Using a small wooden mallet and a dowel, they tapped away at the dusty lump. *Clink. Tap. Scrape.* A fine powder, the color of weak tea, began to settle on the oriental rug. My ear twitched. A cloud of dust motes began to dance in the sunbeam that was, by rights, *my* sunbeam. My tail, which had been draped elegantly over the arm of the chair, gave a single, sharp flick. This process, while tedious, was producing an interesting atmospheric effect.
Eventually, the human's short attention span was captured by the glowing rectangle in their pocket, and they abandoned the project, leaving the dusty brick and its accompanying tools unattended. This was my chance. I hopped down, my paws silent on the rug. The small wooden hammer was the first to receive my attention. A single, well-aimed pat sent it skittering across the floor, coming to a rest perfectly under the credenza. A solid 9/10 for slide and concealability. I then approached the brick itself. A glint of something purple caught my eye, half-unearthed from its plaster prison. I gave the block a tentative scratch. The texture was gritty, satisfying. Another scratch, and the little purple rock—an "amethyst," according to the box I'd deigned to glance at—popped loose.
It was smaller than a beetle but heavier, and it made a delightful *clink-clink-skitter* noise on the hardwood. I nudged it with my nose, then batted it with my paw. It shot under the sofa with astonishing speed. My verdict was clear. The "dig kit" itself was a foolish human endeavor, but as a multi-stage toy delivery system, it was an unqualified success. It provided a dusty mess to supervise, excellent wooden batons, and, best of all, a steady supply of small, hard projectiles to lose in inconvenient places. I decided I would allow it. The human could do the digging; I would handle the quality assurance testing of the final product.
