My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with this… thing. It appears to be a small, plastic rectangle that makes irritatingly cheerful noises and flashes with the kind of frantic energy I usually reserve for chasing a laser dot. It boasts a flashy little screen and a ludicrous number of "games," which I assume involve chasing digital dots or stacking blocks, a pathetic imitation of my own superior hunting and architectural skills (I can knock over a much taller stack of books, thank you very much). The primary appeal for a feline of my stature is not the screen itself—a poor substitute for a real, live sunbeam—but the potential for it to be knocked from a precarious height. However, its main function seems to be monopolizing the human's thumbs, which are better served providing the chin scratches that fuel my existence. It might be a fleeting distraction, but I suspect it's ultimately a waste of what could be valuable napping time.
The intrusion occurred mid-afternoon, during a particularly exquisite nap in a patch of sun on the living room rug. The Staff, as I call my primary human, knelt beside me, holding a garish plastic brick, half blue, half red, with a dark, soulless eye in its center. They chirped something about a "new toy." I responded with a slow, deliberate blink and a dismissive flick of my tail. It didn't smell of nip, nor did it have the feathery texture of my favorite 'Mousie.' It was, in a word, an insult.
Then, The Staff pressed a button. The brick chimed to life with a tinny, chaotic jingle that grated on my finely-tuned ears. The dark eye flared to life, a square of brilliant, moving colors. My tail, against its own will, gave a small twitch. On the screen, a tiny pixelated figure was running and jumping over obstacles. It was like a bug, but one that was trapped, predictable, and utterly fascinating. I crept forward, my belly low to the ground, my gray tuxedo fur gliding over the rug. This was no ordinary brick. It was a portal to a world of tiny, frantic prey.
The Staff, engrossed in their thumb-tapping, failed to notice my approach until my nose was inches from the screen. The little running man was mesmerizing. I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped the screen. The little man did not react to my god-like intervention. A design flaw, clearly. I then tried to assist The Staff, placing my paw over their furiously moving thumb. This was met with laughter, a sound I tolerate but do not encourage. They placed the device on the floor to appease me, the little man still running his endless, pointless race.
I sniffed it. I nudged it with my head, sending it skittering a few inches across the hardwood. The sounds were annoying, the screen too small for a truly satisfying pounce. My verdict was forming. As a toy, it was a failure. It could not be properly disemboweled, it offered no satisfying crunch, and its digital prey was intangible. However, as I turned away in disdain, I noticed the thin black cord now dangling from it as it charged. It swayed hypnotically.
Ah. *Now* I understood. The noisy brick wasn't the toy at all. It was merely the anchor for the *real* prize. The Staff had, in their clumsy way, delivered a brand-new, top-quality string. The game, it turned out, was just beginning.
