A Review · From:
Dumpster Fire Earns Its Keep as a Desk-Top Projectile
Pete thwacks the green yarn lump off the desk for the satisfying thump, discovers it summons human retrieval services on demand, and deems it worthy as a repeat-fire skitter-delivery system.
By Pete · Resident Feline Critic · Filed from beneath the coffee table
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with what they call an "Emotional Support Crochet Dumpster Fire." It is, essentially, a small, knitted green box with some pathetic yarn "flames" sticking out of the top and vacant plastic eyes. It is supposed to represent some sort of human crisis, which is frankly far less interesting than my own very real crisis of an empty food bowl. While the crochet texture might offer a mildly satisfying surface for a claw-sharpening test, its primary function seems to be... sitting. It doesn't skitter, it doesn't chirp, it doesn't dangle. It might be worthy of a single, dismissive bat, but it is unlikely to distract me from a quality nap unless it happens to be occupying my favorite sunbeam.
A soft crinkle of packaging, a sound that usually precedes a new crinkle ball or perhaps a delectable treat, roused me from a particularly satisfying slumber on the heated desk mat. My human loomed, presenting the offending object on their palm. It was a lump. A small, green, yarn-y lump with dead-looking plastic eyes and some frayed orange bits on top. "Look, Pete! It's a dumpster fire! For my desk!" they chirped. I offered a slow, deliberate blink. They disturb my peace for *this*?
I stretched, extending my front paws in a gesture of profound tolerance, and hopped down from my heated throne to investigate. I circled the thing. It smelled faintly of... nothing. Disappointing. No catnip, no silver vine, not even the appealing scent of a factory in a far-off land. I gave it a tentative sniff, my whiskers brushing against its coarse, looped surface. The texture was... not unpleasant. It had the nubby, handmade quality that suggests it would snag a claw just so. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave one of the yarn "flames" a gentle tug. It resisted, then sprang back. Mildly interesting.
Emboldened, I delivered a proper thwack with my paw. The green lump skittered a few inches across the polished wood of the desk, its plastic eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Not bad. It had a decent slide, and its light weight meant I could really send it flying with minimal effort. With a flick of my wrist, I batted it again, this time sending it careening right off the edge of the desk. The satisfying *thump* as it hit the floor below was the most rewarding part of the experience. The human sighed, but I knew the game.
My final verdict is this: the "Dumpster Fire" is an object of occasional amusement. It is not a companion. It is a projectile. Its primary value lies in its satisfying skitter-ability and its potential for being knocked off high places to summon the human for retrieval services. It is, therefore, deemed worthy of my attention, but only when I am feeling particularly generous or bored. For now, I shall watch from above as the human bends over to pick it up, and I will wait for the perfect moment to send it flying once more.
Exhibit A — the specimen
Pete's Verdict
★★★☆☆
Worthy projectile. I await its return.
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Should you insist. Pete is unbothered either way.
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