The Box Was the Only Real Gift Here

The familiar, glorious sound of tearing cardboard echoed through my domain. I rose from my sunbeam, stretched luxuriously until my back popped, and sauntered over to observe The Human's latest offering. The air crackled with her misplaced excitement. Out of the box she pulled not a feathered wand or a crinkle-ball, but a dark, silent beast, frozen mid-prance on a plastic disk. It smelled of factory and disappointment. I gave it a cursory sniff. Nothing. Not a hint of catnip. I nudged its plastic leg with my nose. It didn’t wobble. It didn’t react. An insult to my predatory instincts. My attention, and The Human's, then shifted to the other object: the paper brick. She fanned the pages, a sound that briefly piqued my interest. I gave a single, professional bat to a corner, testing its play-response. The page simply flopped back, inert and uninspired. I could see my reflection in the glossy cover of the frozen horse, a handsome gray-and-white cat looking utterly unimpressed. I decided the most interaction this "book" deserved was to be sat upon, a clear declaration of my dominance over this new, flat intruder. It was, I admit, a comfortable temperature. But as The Human fussed over her static statue, placing it on a shelf well out of my casual reach, my gaze fell upon the true treasure. There, discarded on the floor, was the empty shipping box. Its corrugated walls promised security, its enclosed space was a perfect tactical position for monitoring the living room, and its faint scent of warehouse dust was intoxicating. The horse was a mere bauble, a piece of silent, uninteresting scenery. The book was a mediocre seat. The box, however… the box was a fortress. With a decisive leap, I claimed my prize, settling into the cardboard perfection. Let The Human have her plastic pony; I had found the real reason for the delivery.