My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with a "Motorized Shoot Out Hockey" table. From what my superior intellect can gather, this is a loud, plastic tray that vibrates and blows air upwards, causing a small, flat, red disc to hover in a most unnatural manner. The objective seems to be for the large, clumsy bipeds to knock the disc back and forth with equally clumsy plastic mallets. While the confinement of the prey-disc to its plastic prison is an obvious design flaw that severely limits a proper pounce-and-carry, the sight of a small object gliding silently and swiftly is undeniably intriguing. It may be worthy of a brief, supervisory glance, but the noisy motor is a clear threat to the sanctity of my afternoon nap schedule.
I was deep in a state of profound meditation, otherwise known as a nap, in my favorite patch of sun when the familiar sounds of my human fumbling with a cardboard box shattered the peace. A low groan escaped my chest. I opened one eye, a sliver of green judgment, to see them place a garish plastic rink on the floor. It smelled of disappointment and cheap manufacturing. I gave a slow, deliberate tail-twitch of utter disdain and closed my eye again. If it wasn't a fresh tin of tuna or a new cashmere blanket, it was beneath my notice.
A moment later, a low, persistent hum started, a deeply offensive vibration that traveled through the floorboards and directly into my perfectly groomed tuxedo-patterned chest. My ears swiveled in irritation. The human placed a small red disc onto the white surface, and my other eye snapped open. The disc… floated. It hovered a hair's breadth above the surface, held aloft by some unseen force. My tail, which had been conveying my contempt, froze mid-swish. The human then took a blue plastic paddle and clumsily tapped the disc. It shot across the rink, zipping with a speed and smoothness that my hunter's brain, against my will, registered as ‘prey-like.’
My skepticism warred with instinct. The human was slow, their movements predictable and unworthy of such a fascinatingly mobile target. I could tolerate it no longer. With the fluid grace they so sorely lack, I rose and hopped onto the low table beside the game, peering down into the arena. The human tapped the puck again. It ricocheted off the wall. Before they could react, my paw, a blur of soft gray fur and surgical precision, shot out. I ignored the useless paddle and connected directly with the disc. *Clack!* It careened into the opposite goal. A point for me, I decided.
The game itself, this noisy plastic altar, is an insult to refined sensibilities. It is a cage for what could be a truly magnificent floor-toy. After a few more perfunctory bats to prove my superiority, I hooked the disc with one claw and deftly flicked it out of the rink entirely. It skittered beautifully across the hardwood, a liberated soul ready for a real chase. The hockey table is a flawed delivery system, but the puck... the puck has earned the honor of being batted under the credenza, to be retrieved at my leisure. A worthy diversion. For now.
