My human has presented me with what appears to be a miniature child-rearing simulation kit. From my analysis, it consists of a lanky plastic hominid, an even smaller plastic hominid, and a wheeled transport device for the latter. The primary gimmick seems to be that the seat of this garish purple stroller can be detached and carried, presumably for when the larger doll gets tired of pushing. While the unblinking stares of the dolls are deeply unsettling and a waste of perfectly good shelf space, the assortment of minuscule accessories—a tiny bottle, a snack jar, a minuscule bear—could provide a few moments of satisfying skittering across the hardwood floors. The stroller's wheels also hold a faint promise of amusement, but frankly, the whole affair seems like an awful lot of clutter for very little stimulating payoff, unless that detachable carrier turns out to be a surprisingly comfortable, if absurdly small, new bed.
The crinkling of the box was an assault on the dignified silence of my afternoon nap. I opened one green eye, observing my human as they fumbled with the plastic packaging. Soon, they assembled the offering on the living room rug: a tall, smiling doll with unnervingly jointed limbs, a tiny baby doll plopped into a bright purple stroller, and a scattering of tiny objects. I stretched, my gray tuxedo fur immaculate, and hopped down from the velvet armchair to conduct my inspection, my tail giving a slight, skeptical twitch.
My initial pass was dismissive. The large doll was useless—too big to bat, too rigid to be satisfyingly "killed." I gave it a cursory sniff and moved on. The tiny accessories were more promising. With a delicate, white-gloved paw, I sent the little teddy bear flying under the sofa. A fleeting, but decent, bit of fun. Then, I turned my attention to the main event: the stroller. It was an offensive shade of purple, but it had wheels. I gave it a tentative nudge with my nose. It wobbled. I gave it a firmer pat with my paw. It rolled a few inches, the tiny plastic baby jiggling within. Ah. A glimmer of potential in this mountain of mediocrity.
My human, interpreting my interest as a sign of profound engagement, reached down and—with a decisive click—detached the stroller's seat, setting the resulting carrier on the floor. Now this was interesting. A new box. A potential vessel. It was small, but cats are masters of fitting into the improbable. I circled it once, my whiskers brushing against the plastic. The baby doll, however, was still inside, an unwelcome occupant in my potential new lounge. This would not stand. With a swift, expertly aimed hook of a single claw, I flicked the tiny impostor out onto the rug. It landed with a faint, unsatisfying clatter.
With the tiny squatter evicted, the purple carrier was now properly mine. I couldn't quite fit, of course, but that wasn't the point. I placed a proprietary paw upon its edge, claiming it for the glory of my collection of conquered objects. I then looked up at my human and gave a long, slow blink of approval. The toy as a whole was a chaotic mess, but its parts were not without merit. This small, purple throne and the satisfaction of deposing its previous owner made the entire noisy ordeal worthwhile. The offering was, against all odds, deemed worthy.
