Red Cylinder Earns Its Place as a Floor Puck

The thing arrived in a noisy, crinkly Amazon vessel, the sound of which was the most exciting part of the entire experience. My human placed the clear plastic box on the floor before me with a triumphant, "Look what I got, Pete!" I stared at it, then looked at my pristine white paws, and began to groom one meticulously, an act that conveys my utter lack of interest far more effectively than any hiss. Inside the box was a flimsy tray holding ten squat, colorful plastic columns. My human, undeterred by my calculated indifference, removed one—a garish red one—and pressed it onto a stray piece of mail. *Click-thump*. A messy red smiley face appeared. I yawned. They left the contraption on the coffee table, a clear invitation for inspection on my own terms. Hours later, after a significant nap in a patch of late afternoon sun, I deigned to investigate. I leaped onto the table with the silence and grace befitting my station. The tray of little towers sat there, looking cheap and lonely. I gave one a delicate sniff. It smelled faintly of ink and desperation. I nudged it with my nose. It wobbled precariously in its little plastic slot. This was more promising. With a single, expertly placed swat of my paw, I sent the red stamper flying from its tray. It sailed through the air and landed on the hardwood with a most satisfying *clatter-skitter-skitter*, sliding to a halt just under the edge of the sofa. My ears perked. My tail gave a slow, deliberate twitch. The hunt was on. I crouched low, my gray tuxedo blending into the evening shadows, and stalked my new prey. The human’s intended purpose was, as usual, laughably misguided. But as a high-velocity floor puck? This little red cylinder had just earned its place in my kingdom.