One Well-Timed Thwack Ends the Gymnast's Career

The offensively loud crinkling of plastic packaging disturbed a perfectly-calibrated nap I was taking in my favorite armchair. I opened one green eye just enough to register my human hunched over the coffee table, extracting a collection of brightly colored objects from a cardboard prison. I saw a stiff, blonde creature with a permanent smile, a long purple plank, and a constellation of tiny items that glinted under the lamp light. My tail gave a single, irritated flick. Another monument to poor taste was being erected in my living room. I sighed, the sound a soft puff of air, and decided a closer inspection was required, if only to properly catalog my disdain. I leaped silently from the chair, my paws making no sound on the rug as I approached the scene. The plastic smell was pungent. The doll itself was useless—cold, hard, and entirely devoid of the pleasing texture of a mouse or the satisfying heft of a wool dryer ball. I gave its synthetic hair a cursory sniff and dismissed it. The purple plank, this "balance beam," was more interesting. I rubbed my cheek against its corner, generously marking it with my scent. It was now my property, of course. My eyes then fell upon a tiny, golden trophy. Ah. Now this had potential. It was small, light, and perfectly shaped for a good skitter across the hardwood. Just as I was plotting the trophy's inevitable disappearance, my human cooed, "Watch this, Pete!" She attached the plastic biped to the beam with a strange clip. With a push, the doll swung around the beam in a wild, looping arc. Once. Twice. My ears swiveled forward, my pupils dilating. My initial boredom evaporated, replaced by a primal, electric focus. This was not the slow, predictable movement of a laser dot's puppet master; this was a chaotic, spinning thing. A challenge. My body lowered into a predatory crouch, my white-tipped tail twitching like a metronome of doom. The doll flipped again. I timed it perfectly. A blur of gray and white fur, a flash of extended claws (sheathed, I'm not an animal), and a satisfying *thwack*. The gymnast flew from her perch, clattering unceremoniously behind the television stand. Silence. My human sighed. I sat, straightened my tuxedo-front, and began to groom a paw with feigned indifference, the picture of innocence. The spinning thing had been silenced. I then casually sauntered over to the beam and, with a delicate tap, sent the little golden trophy skittering into the darkness beneath the sofa. A perfect landing. Very well. The toy could stay. It provides an adequate challenge for a superior athlete.