Pete Invents the Superior Game: You Will Never Find It

The afternoon sunbeam was hitting the Persian rug just so, warming my elegant gray and white fur to a perfect temperature for a deep, philosophical nap. It was then that the peace was shattered by the crinkle of plastic wrap and the triumphant declaration of "Family Game Night!" from my human. A glossy blue box was placed on the floor, and from it emerged a stack of circular cards, each a chaotic collage of cartoon figures. The two small humans descended upon them like vultures on a particularly slow-moving field mouse, shrieking with delight. I watched from my regal position atop the armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation. They spread the cards on the coffee table, a gaudy mosaic of grinning crocodiles, flying elephants, and at least three different princesses who all looked vaguely the same. The game began. It was a cacophony of pointing fingers and triumphant yelps. "I found Stitch!" "There's Tinkerbell!" It was utter madness, a pointless exercise in visual acuity that I, with my superior night vision and ability to spot a dust bunny from fifty paces, found deeply insulting. I began to groom a pristine white patch on my chest, feigning utter disinterest. Then, opportunity, as it so often does, came fluttering down from on high. In a particularly exuberant gesture, one of the small humans sent a single card skittering off the table. It landed face-up near the leg of the sofa. On it was a blue fish, looking perpetually lost. I descended from my perch with the silent grace of a shadow. The humans were too engrossed in their matching game to notice. I nudged the card with my nose. It smelled of ink and the cloying sweetness of children's hands. I gave it a tentative pat with one paw, claws sheathed. It slid. Oh, it slid beautifully. This was a far superior game. I batted the card again, sending it careening under the edge of the sofa. A moment later, a wail went up from the table. "Where's the Dory card? We can't play without the Dory card!" Their silly little game had ground to a halt. They searched frantically, peering under cushions and checking their laps. I watched from the shadows, a faint, smug satisfaction warming me more than any sunbeam ever could. They thought they were playing "Eye Found It." But I had just invented a much more compelling pastime: "You'll Never Find It." It was a game I was very, very good at. The cardboard disc was mine now, a trophy of my strategic genius, and it would remain my prisoner until a suitable ransom of salmon treats was offered.