My human, in its infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with what it calls "Disney Doorables." From my analysis of the packaging and the general air of frivolous enthusiasm, these are small, static, plastic trinkets meant to be collected and, I suppose, stared at. They depict various oddly-proportioned creatures with large, glassy eyes, apparently from the human's vast mythology of "cartoons." For a cat of my discerning taste, the appeal is dubious. While their diminutive size might make them suitable for a brief, condescending bat across the hardwood floor, they lack any of the essential qualities of a proper toy: no feathers, no catnip scent, no tantalizing crinkle. Frankly, they seem like clutter in the making, and I suspect the cardboard box they arrive in will offer far more enrichment than these little idols ever could.
The intrusion occurred, as they so often do, during my mid-afternoon sunbeam meditation. I was meticulously warming my pristine gray fur when the Human loomed over me, cooing nonsense and brandishing a small, brightly colored box. My ear twitched in annoyance. I was busy. The box was placed on the floor before me, a gaudy offering. My initial assessment was that the container itself had potential – sharp corners for cheek rubbing, sturdy cardboard for a satisfying chew. The Human, however, tore it open with a distinct lack of finesse, revealing the true nature of the "gift."
Out tumbled a tiny, rigid figure. It was some sort of bipedal mouse with offensively large ears and a fixed, vacant grin. It smelled of nothing but a factory and the Human's own hand. It was an affront to the senses. The Human dangled it before my nose, wiggling it pathetically. I responded with a slow, deliberate blink, the highest form of feline dismissal. This was not prey. This was not a friend. This was an inanimate lump of plastic posing as entertainment.
Unperturbed, the Human flicked the tiny mouse-thing, sending it skittering across the floor with a cheap, clattering sound. My instincts, ancient and profound, compelled me to act. I rose with fluid grace, my white-gloved paws silent on the wood. I stalked the figurine, gave it one perfectly executed, testing cuff with my paw, and watched it slide unimpressively into the dark void beneath the sofa. There was no satisfying bounce, no flutter of defeat. It was a hollow victory. My verdict was clear: the toy was an utter failure. I turned my back on the plastic effigy and its disappointing acoustics, padded deliberately over to the discarded box, and settled inside its superior form. Some things, it seems, the humans will never understand.
