My human has brought home a box of what they call a "toy," which appears to be nothing more than thousands of tiny, sharp-edged plastic bricks. The goal, I gather, is to assemble them into a miniature, colorful human dwelling from some moving picture they enjoy. While the sheer number of small pieces presents a tantalizing opportunity for batting them into unreachable voids beneath the furniture, the overall project seems like a colossal waste of my human's time—time that could be better spent providing chin scratches or refilling my food bowl. The final product, a static house, will likely just become another shelf ornament, too small for a quality nap and featuring an offensive plastic effigy of a dog. This is clearly an exercise in human patience, not a source of feline enrichment.
The intrusion began with a loud crinkling sound, shattering the sacred silence of my afternoon nap. I opened one green eye, peering down from my throne atop the velvet armchair. The human was on the floor, surrounded by a sea of clear plastic bags filled with what looked like brightly colored gravel. They called it "LEGO." I called it an unwelcome disruption. For hours, the only sounds were the soft *click* of plastic on plastic and the occasional frustrated sigh from my staff member. A tiny, colorful house began to take shape, a monument to their baffling hobbies.
My initial assessment was one of pure disdain. It was not feathery. It did not crinkle. It did not contain catnip. It was, in short, an object of profound uselessness. However, as the human’s attention lapsed, a single, smooth, round blue piece rolled off the table and onto the hardwood floor. My ears swiveled, my tail gave a mighty twitch. A silent leap, a flash of gray and white fur, and my paw connected with the target. The piece skittered beautifully, a silent blue streak that vanished under the heavy credenza. A small, but deeply satisfying, victory. The human was none the wiser.
When the construction was finally complete, the human placed the finished house on a low bookshelf, beaming with pride. It was admittedly charming, in a garish, non-functional way. But my focus was drawn to the small figures arranged around it: a blocky old man, a small round boy, and—I bristled—a dog. A smiling, dopey-looking plastic dog. The sheer audacity. The human dangled the canine figure in front of my face. I gave it a withering stare, sniffed once with contempt, and turned my back, presenting my tail as my official statement on the matter.
Later that night, long after the human was asleep, I decided to conduct a more thorough inspection. I leapt silently onto the bookshelf. The house was stable, but uninteresting. The plastic dog, however, was perched precariously on the edge of the miniature porch. With a precise and deliberate nudge of my nose, I sent the offending canine tumbling into the darkness of the floor below. I then noticed the small, round boy figure. His backpack was covered in tiny, intriguing shapes. One little nudge sent the entire figure skittering off the shelf. I watched it fall, then hopped down to bat it around the living room. Perhaps this "toy" wasn't a total loss. It's not a gift, you understand. It's a new source of projectiles. And for that, I will allow it to remain. For now.
