Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with what appears to be a stack of printed paper rectangles. They call them "flashcards" and insist they are for stimulating the undeveloped mind of a tiny, loud human. The collection features a progression of high-contrast images, starting with simple black and white patterns that might, for a fleeting moment, hold my attention more than a particularly intricate shadow on the wall. While the sheer volume of cards presents a tantalizing opportunity for widespread, systematic shredding, their inherent lack of bounce, crinkle, or chaotic movement suggests they are fundamentally flawed as an object of play. Frankly, unless I am permitted to test their durability with my claws and teeth, they seem like a colossal waste of my valuable energy.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
I was in the midst of a critical nap-based analysis of a sunbeam's trajectory across the living room rug when The Human approached. They knelt, presenting a thin, flat square. It depicted a stark black spiral on a white background. I offered a slow, unimpressed blink. They waved it gently. It did not chirp, wiggle, or smell of tuna. It was, to my highly refined sensibilities, an insult in two dimensions. I turned my head away pointedly, focusing my attention back on the far more engaging dust motes dancing in the light. Undeterred, The Human laid several more of the cards on the floor like a pathetic offering. A checkerboard, a simple circle, a stylized fish. My gaze lingered on the fish for a half-second longer than the others; the subject matter was, at least, appropriate. My interest, however, was not in the image but in the object itself. I lazily extended a single, perfect claw and hooked the edge of the card. A light tug sent it skittering a few inches across the hardwood. Well, now. That was… something. My initial disdain began to curdle into scientific curiosity. I stalked the checkerboard card, my haunches low. A swift pat sent it sliding towards the sofa. I pounced, pinning it beneath both front paws. The material was thick, satisfyingly resistant. I grabbed it with my teeth to carry it off to my lair, but the rounded corners were a disappointment—poor for teething. It was then that I discovered its true purpose. By hooking my paw underneath the edge and flicking my wrist, I could launch the card into the air. It would flutter down, a wounded, silent bird. The Human made a pleased sound, no doubt believing their "visual stimulation" experiment was a success. The fool. They saw a baby toy; I saw a primitive but effective prey-simulation device. While these silent squares could never replace the thrill of a real hunt, they served as an adequate training tool for my pouncing and flipping techniques. They are not worthy of my full, enthusiastic attention, but for a slow afternoon, they will do. They have been judged and deemed… marginally acceptable.
