A Tale from Pete the Cat

The thing arrived in a crinkly, transparent bag, presented not to me, but to a smaller, louder human—a "niece," I believe they called her—who was visiting for the afternoon. I watched from the arm of the sofa, a gray statue of judgment, as she clumsily unzipped the pouch and spilled the plastic refuse onto the rug. Her squeals of delight over the bottles, one with a milky white substance and the other a lurid orange, were a grating assault on the quiet dignity of my naptime. She tilted the bottle to her doll's vacant plastic face, and the liquid drained away. The humans applauded this "magic." I began pointedly grooming a hard-to-reach spot on my back, a clear signal of my utter disdain for such low-brow entertainment. The true test, however, came unexpectedly. In a fit of uncontrolled toddler enthusiasm, the small human flung the milk bottle. It sailed through the air in a clumsy arc before landing with a hollow *clack* on the hardwood floor and skittering directly under the heavy oak coffee table. A great wail went up from the small human, whose short, clumsy arms could not retrieve it. The adults made a few half-hearted attempts before declaring it "lost to the dust bunnies." They were wrong. It was not lost. It had been delivered unto my kingdom. Later that night, long after the house had fallen silent, I slunk from my sleeping spot. The living room was a landscape of shadows, and there, just beyond the edge of the rug, was my prize. I nudged it with my nose. The weight was peculiar, the liquid inside sloshing to create an unpredictable wobble. I gave it a tentative pat with my paw. It slid, oh, it slid beautifully. A harder swat sent it careening off the leg of the credenza with a deeply satisfying *thwump-skitter-skitter*. This was no mere bottle. This was a sophisticated, high-performance floor hockey puck. The disappearing milk, which I had earlier dismissed, now served as an internal gyroscope, ensuring its trajectory was always a delightful challenge. For weeks, that bottle was the object of my clandestine midnight tournaments. I would stalk it, pounce on it, and send it ricocheting through the dark and silent house. The humans never found it, for I was clever enough to tuck it back into the deepest shadows beneath the table before the sun rose. They saw a cheap, lost doll accessory. I, in my infinite wisdom, had discovered its true and glorious purpose. Against all odds, the fash n kolor company had accidentally created a toy of exquisite quality—a masterpiece of ricochet and glide, worthy of my formidable skills. A happy accident, but a welcome one.