My human seems to have acquired a bulk shipment of colorful, squishy material for the small, loud one. They call it "Modeling Dough" by Crayola. From my observation post on the back of the sofa, I see it's intended for "early learning," which is human-speak for "sanctioned mess-making." It comes in six separate buckets—an excessive number, really—and boasts a soft, non-crumbling texture. While I have no interest in being "molded," the softness might offer a novel texture for my paws, and the airtight buckets present a moderate challenge for a cat skilled in knocking things off counters. Ultimately, however, it appears to be a pointless activity designed to keep a lesser being occupied, and likely a complete waste of my superior intellect and valuable time.
The invasion began on a Tuesday. The Caretaker returned not with the customary tribute of food or feather wands, but with a large box containing six identical, sealed canisters. They were placed on the high kitchen table, a row of silent, colorful sentinels. I watched from the floor, tail twitching, as the Small Human was summoned. With a grunt of effort, it pried the lid off a red canister. A strange, synthetic scent, clean and vaguely fruity, permeated the air, an odor entirely alien to my refined olfactory world. The Small Human plunged its clumsy paws inside and retrieved a glistening, crimson mass.
I crept closer, my tuxedo-furred belly low to the ground. This was not food. This was not a toy. It was... an entity. The Small Human pounded it, rolled it, and tore it asunder, yet the crimson blob did not resist. It simply yielded, its color a shocking, vibrant wound against the pale wood of the table. It didn't crumble or shed, a violation of the natural law that all interesting things must create a satisfying mess. It was a silent, pliable mystery, an otherworldly substance that absorbed punishment without complaint or disintegration.
Later, under the cloak of night, I leaped onto the table to conduct my own investigation. A small, abandoned piece of the red entity lay there. I nudged it with my nose. It was cool and alarmingly soft, like the flesh of some unknown, boneless creature. I extended a single, perfect claw and pressed it into the surface. The material gave way, creating a perfect, crescent-shaped impression that held its form. There was no satisfying tear, no gratifying shred. It was simply... indented. I tried to bat it; it just skidded, a dull and heavy lump.
This Crayola substance, I concluded, was not for me. It was a thing of profound disinterest. It offered no thrill of the chase, no joy of destruction, no potential for a nap. It was the physical embodiment of a pointless endeavor. I turned my back on the strange red artifact, leaving it to its silent, squishy fate. I would instead retire to my velvet cushion and dream of things truly worthy of my attention, like the tantalizing dance of a laser dot or the glorious demise of a peacock feather. This "dough" was beneath me.
