Gnawed, Batted, Banished Beneath the Refrigerator

The thing was presented with a flourish, dangled before my face as if it were a prized sashimi treat. I gave the human a slow, unimpressed blink. It was a flimsy, bright red piece of rubber that smelled faintly of a factory and human desperation. I yawned, showing a flash of my formidable fangs, and turned my head, hoping this pathetic offering would simply vanish. Of course, it did not. It was placed on the polished hardwood floor, a silent, insulting challenge. For a full minute, I ignored it, choosing instead to meticulously groom a single, perfect whisker. The human made an encouraging "pspsps" sound. An amateur's move. Still, my curiosity, that most base and feline of instincts, began to stir. I rose with a fluid grace that the human could never hope to emulate and circled the red object. It was thin, with a strange clear window in the middle. I extended a single, sharp claw and gave it a tentative poke. It yielded with a soft, rubbery give. Intriguing, but hardly a thrill. I gave it a light pat. It skittered a few feet, silent and unimpressive. There was no satisfying rattle, no frantic rustle of a captured creature. I pounced, more out of a sense of obligation than actual excitement, pinning it beneath my paws. I tried to sink my teeth into it; the silicone texture was a novel sensation, a sort of dense, unsatisfying gumminess. There was no reward. No crunch, no savory filling. After a moment of this fruitless gnawing, I picked it up, trotted over to the gap beneath the refrigerator, and neatly batted it into the dusty abyss. It was, I concluded, exactly where it belonged. A two-star distraction at best. Now, if you'll excuse me, that sunbeam isn't going to nap in itself.