Opus Earns a Reprieve by Rattling Satisfyingly

The Human dangled the blue monstrosity before my face, wiggling it with an absurd level of enthusiasm. I responded with the only appropriate gesture: a slow, deliberate blink of utter disdain. I was in the middle of a very important sunbeam session, and this interruption was most unwelcome. The creature had a vacant, painted-on smile and a head full of noisy, colorful pebbles. The Human shook it, producing a cheap rattle. I flattened my ears, not in fear, but in profound annoyance. Finally, my captor gave up and placed the plastic octopus on the rug before leaving the room, no doubt to pursue some other pointless human endeavor. For a full ten minutes, I refused to acknowledge its existence. It was a matter of principle. But the way the light caught its stupidly cheerful tentacles began to gnaw at the edges of my composure. With a sigh that conveyed the immense burden of my existence, I rose and stretched, a fluid motion of gray and white fur. I approached 'Opus' with the silent, cautious steps of a seasoned hunter. It smelled of nothing but plastic and the Human's hand lotion. I extended a single, perfect paw and gave one of the green loops a tentative tap. It wobbled. Intriguing. I tapped it again, this time with a bit more force. The octopus skidded across the floor, its rattle escalating from a gentle shake to a satisfyingly chaotic clatter. Ah, now we were getting somewhere. This was no longer a stationary object of scorn, but prey. I crouched low, wiggled my hindquarters, and launched myself after it. My paws found purchase on the rug, and I expertly pinned the toy. The textured loops, which the packaging probably described with words like "soothing," were actually perfect for hooking a claw into. I picked it up by a yellow tentacle, the plastic surprisingly pleasant to grip with my teeth—not for chewing, mind you, but for leverage. I gave my head a sharp flick, sending Opus flying through the air. It landed with a glorious crash against the leg of the dining room table. I spent the next several minutes engaged in a brutal hunt, batting the octopus under chairs and pouncing upon it from behind the curtains. It was, I grudgingly admitted to myself, an acceptable diversion. Its simple construction was its greatest asset; it was light enough to fling, and its rattling head provided excellent auditory feedback on a successful strike. When I grew tired, I stalked away, leaving it abandoned in the middle of the room. I would never let the Human see my enjoyment, but Opus the Octopus had earned a temporary reprieve from being kicked under the furniture. For now.