Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a bundle of six identical, slender sticks. They are made of smooth birch wood, a material I find acceptably neutral on the palate, should I deign to chew on them. The packaging, which my human carelessly left nearby, suggests these are "Weaving Sticks," some sort of baffling tool for a tedious human craft. From my perspective, they lack the fundamental requirements of a toy: no feathers, no erratic movement, no tantalizing scent of catnip. They are the very definition of inert potential. While I appreciate the sheer quantity, offering multiple targets for a coordinated swatting attack, their profound stillness means they are likely to be a colossal waste of my energy unless the human is willing to personally wiggle them for my amusement.
Key Features
- 6 Weaving Sticks per package
- Smooth Birch wood
- Fun and easy weaving
- Country of Origin: China
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began under the dim light of the evening lamp. The human, my large and generally well-meaning warden, unwrapped the artifacts with a reverence I typically reserve for the opening of a fresh can of tuna. Six pale wands of polished wood were laid bare upon the rug. I watched from my observation post atop the sofa, tail twitching, analyzing the ritual. She wasn't preparing them for me, that much was clear. She was weaving some sort of strange, colorful yarn between them, her hands moving in a rhythmic, perplexing dance. This was not play; this was some sort of strange magic. When she finally abandoned her post for a cup of tea, I descended. The air around the half-finished weaving still hummed with her peculiar energy. The six birch wands stood like silent sentinels guarding a nest of tangled rainbow entrails. I gave one a tentative sniff. It smelled of wood and human hands, a mundane combination. I extended a single, perfect claw and gently tapped the nearest wand. It resisted, held fast by the tension of the yarn. This was not a simple stick to be batted under the furniture. This was a component of a larger, more complex system. Intrigued, I nudged a different wand with my nose, one at the edge of the construct. It wobbled, and the entire structure shimmered. The threads tightened and loosened in a wave. I did it again, harder this time. *Thunk*. The wand popped free from its yarn prison and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop pointing directly at the door to the kitchen. I looked at the fallen wand, then at the kitchen, where my food dish resided. It was an omen. These weren't toys; they were divining rods. I had misinterpreted their purpose entirely. I then batted another free, which rolled and pointed towards the softest blanket on the armchair. A prophecy of a nap. I had my verdict. As mere playthings, these sticks were a failure. But as tools of prognostication, as a means to chart the course of my day—from meals to slumber—they were indispensable. The human could keep her silly weaving. I had stolen two of her sacred wands of prophecy, and I would use them to ensure my future was filled with maximum comfort and minimal effort. They were worthy, not for play, but for power.
