My human, in their infinite... let's call it *curiosity*... has presented me with a box of plastic. It appears they intend to painstakingly assemble these tiny, eminently lose-able bits into a blocky effigy of that witless bird, Heihei, from one of their moving-picture stories. They claim its head rotates and its wings flap, which I suppose offers a marginal improvement over a simple rock, and it comes with a tiny stand so it can properly collect dust. Frankly, the primary appeal seems to be the potential for batting the individual, brightly colored pieces into the dark abyss beneath the furniture before assembly is complete. The finished product looks like a static, un-pounceable shelf ornament, a profound waste of what could otherwise be prime lap-napping time.
The tell-tale rattle of a thousand tiny plastic bits in a cardboard prison announced the arrival of my human’s latest folly. I observed from my velvet throne—a sunbeam on the Persian rug—as they carefully emptied several crinkly bags onto the coffee table. The scent was sterile, a far cry from the tantalizing aroma of tuna or chicken. My tail gave a single, dismissive flick. This was clearly not for me. The human was absorbed, muttering and referencing a booklet of colorful diagrams, their attention stolen by these worthless fragments.
As the human hunched over, making small, satisfying *click* noises, my professional duty compelled me to investigate. I stretched, my claws extending for a brief, satisfying scratch on the rug, and sauntered over. A single, errant lime-green piece, no bigger than a kibble, had rolled near the edge of the table. It practically beckoned to me. A swift, precise tap of my white paw sent it skittering across the hardwood floor and into the shadows beneath the credenza. A perfect shot. My work here was done, or so I thought. The human sighed, but did not give chase. An amateur.
Hours later, after a substantial nap, I awoke to find a creature standing on the table where the pile of bits had been. It was all sharp angles and jarring colors—orange, blue, green—a mockery of a true avian. I gave it a tentative sniff. Plastic. Disappointing. With a delicate nudge of my nose, I tested its sturdiness. The head swiveled to face me with a dry *click*, its painted eyes staring blankly into my soul. An eyebrow-raising development. I batted at a wing. It flopped up and down loosely, offering a moment of clumsy motion before settling. Mildly amusing, I suppose.
Was it a worthy plaything? No. It lacked the satisfying squish of a plush mouse, the unpredictable flight of a feather wand, and it certainly wasn't edible. But as I sat there, gazing at its vacant, blocky stare, I realized its true potential. It was perfectly balanced for a dramatic, middle-of-the-night shove off the edge of the bookshelf. It was not a toy; it was an opportunity. A future source of sudden, unexplained noise that would surely result in immediate attention and perhaps even a conciliatory treat. For that, and that alone, it earned a slow, approving blink.
