My human, in a display of questionable judgment, has presented me with a small, garishly green plastic contraption that mimics their own "work" box. This "LeapTop," as they call it, is apparently for lesser beings, likely the small, loud ones. It has a screen that flips—a moderately interesting mechanical feature—and a keyboard of depressingly large, non-backlit buttons. I suppose there might be some momentary satisfaction in pressing the keys to elicit a noise, a simple cause-and-effect game for a simple mind. However, I suspect the sounds will be repetitive and grating, and the plastic shell offers no warmth for napping. It is, most likely, a cheap imitation of the far superior, heat-generating device my human uses to ignore me, and therefore a complete waste of my valuable time.
The object was placed on the rug before me, a plastic emerald offending the otherwise tasteful decor. My human made a cooing noise, tapping one of the giant buttons. A painfully cheerful voice burst forth, singing about the alphabet. I flattened my ears, my tail giving a single, irritated flick. This was an insult. Did they think my intellect, which has successfully mapped every sunbeam in this house by season, could be entertained by such drivel? I gave my pristine white bib a pointed lick, feigning utter disinterest as the human finally retreated to a respectful distance.
Alone with the thing, a sliver of professional curiosity pricked at my composure. I am, after all, a connoisseur of objects. I rose with a silken stretch and padded over, sniffing its chemical-scented edges. It smelled of a factory, not a field mouse. Disappointing. I extended a single, perfect gray paw and cautiously tapped a key. "Let's learn numbers!" the box chirped. I tapped another. "Red!" it shouted. The tactile feedback was unsatisfying—a hollow clack, not the solid, important click of the human's real keyboard. I did, however, discover the handle, which proved to be a decent object for batting back and forth.
My swatting grew more vigorous until, with a clumsy thwack, I knocked the entire screen portion over. It flipped completely around, transforming the device from a laptop shape into a flat tablet. Well now. That was unexpected. A toy with a secret. I nudged it with my nose, trying to replicate the action. After a few tries, I got it to flip back. This was a far more interesting feature than the obnoxious noises. For a solid minute, I was a master of mechanical transformation, flipping the screen back and forth with practiced ease. This, at least, required a modicum of skill.
But the novelty, like a moth cornered, was fleeting. The box continued its inane chatter regardless of its configuration. I tried to curl up on it, the ultimate test of any object's worth, but its surface was cold, hard, and lumpy. A complete failure as a napping surface. My verdict was clear. The flipping mechanism offered a brief, shining moment of amusement, but the toy’s core function was an assault on the senses. I gave the green monstrosity one last, dismissive push with my nose and walked away, my tail held high. The human's actual, wonderfully warm laptop was sitting unattended on the couch, a far more worthy throne for a cat of my stature.
