Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a baffling attempt to curate my entertainment, has presented me with a box of what appear to be... flat, silent squares of paper. They are called "High Contrast Baby Flashcards," an offensive name on two counts, as I am neither a baby nor in need of flashing. The premise is visual stimulation via simple black-and-white images, eventually progressing to garish colors, for the undeveloped minds of human infants. I must concede that the stark, bold patterns are not entirely unpleasant to my superior feline eyes and might offer a brief, meditative distraction. However, as they make no noise, do not taste of salmon, and cannot be properly disemboweled, I suspect their primary function will be to clutter the floor, a space I have already perfected for napping.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The crinkle of the box being opened was an unwelcome intrusion on my post-meal grooming session. I paused, one leg held aloft, and leveled a cool gaze at the Human. She was cooing, a sound that usually precedes either an unwanted cuddle or a subpar treat. This time, she produced a stack of stiff, shiny cards and placed one on the rug before me. It was an image of a fish, but rendered in such stark, absolute black against a white background that it seemed to vibrate at the edges. I was, of course, utterly unimpressed. A two-dimensional fish is an insult to my hunting prowess. I returned to my grooming, pointedly turning my back to the offering. Yet, I could see the card reflected in the gleaming surface of the water bowl. It was... precise. Clean. My tail gave a single, traitorous twitch. The Human, sensing a crack in my composure, slid the card a few inches. The smooth, silent glide across the rug snagged my attention. This was not the clumsy wobble of a stuffed mouse; it was a sleek, deliberate movement. Against my better judgment, I rose, stretched languidly to demonstrate my complete lack of urgency, and padded over. I sniffed the card. It smelled of cardboard and disappointment. Still, the visual was compelling. I extended a single, impeccably soft gray paw and gave it a gentle tap. It skidded. My pupils, those twin abysses of predatory focus, widened. I tapped it again, a little harder this time. It shot across the polished hardwood, a fleeting shadow. A new game unlocked. It was a silent, minimalist hunt for a geometric ghost. I crouched low, my white-bibbed chest nearly touching the floor, and prepared to pounce. The Human, now beaming with misplaced pride, began sliding more cards my way. A spiral, a checkerboard, a rather unflattering silhouette of another cat. I ignored her, my focus entirely on the silent prey I had cornered near the leg of the sofa. It was not a feathered wand, and it was certainly not a live cricket, but it had its own strange charm. It was a worthy adversary for a cat of modern, minimalist tastes. I would permit these paper squares to remain. For now. With a final, decisive pounce, I pinned the fish to the floor, its stark form a trophy of my intellectual victory.
