A Tale from Pete the Cat

The case landed on my territory just after my mid-morning nap. It was a long, metallic suspect, standing upright in the hallway, glinting a garish shade of blue under the recessed lighting. My human, the usual informant, simply pointed at it and made a series of nonsensical happy noises. I, Detective Pete, approached with caution, my white tuxedo immaculate against the hardwood floor. The air around it smelled of cold metal and a strange, synthetic hardness I identified as "urethane." This was no simple catnip mouse. This was something else entirely. My initial sweep involved a low, circular patrol. The frame was cold and impassive to my touch. I gave one of the wheels a tentative pat with my paw. It spun with a low, almost silent hum, a blur of blue and black. Intriguing, but suspicious. As I nosed around the base, the informant folded the creature in half with a sudden, violent CLANG that sent me skittering under the credenza, my dignity severely compromised. A trap? A deceptive piece of engineering designed to startle the unwary? I would not be fooled again. From my safe vantage point, I watched as the informant propped it against the wall, its menace now temporarily neutralized. The real break in the case came when the small human—the prime suspect in nearly all household disturbances—arrived home. He grabbed the metallic beast, unfolded it with a practiced, albeit clumsy, motion, and proceeded to engage in the most grotesque display of locomotion I had ever witnessed. One foot on the plank, the other scrabbling against the floor, he wobbled down the hallway in a series of jerky propulsions. It wasn't a vehicle of stealth or grace; it was a crutch. A monument to their own biological shortcomings, a desperate attempt to mimic the effortless speed I achieve when the treat bag is rustled. My final verdict was clear. The "scooter" was not a threat, nor was it a toy worthy of my sophisticated palate. It was a tool for the vertically-challenged and poorly-balanced. However, late that night, when the house was silent, I found myself drawn back to the scene. I gave the front wheel another, more deliberate swat. *Whirrrrrrrrrrr.* It spun for an impressively long time, the hum a faint, hypnotic song in the quiet hall. I batted it again. *Whirrrrrrrrrrr.* A simple, repetitive, and ultimately pointless mechanism. Utterly beneath me, of course. But I suppose, for a minute or two before my next nap, it has its singular, fleeting charm. The case is closed, but the evidence will be… periodically re-examined.