My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented this... *thing* for my consideration. It appears to be a plush effigy of a Bernedoodle, a creature whose primary purpose seems to be smiling inanely. This particular imposter is an "interactive" toy, which is human-speak for "it will make repetitive and irritating noises." It ambulates not of its own accord, but by being prodded along with a rigid plastic stick, a crude imitation of a proper leash. Its key features are walking when pushed, emitting tinny barking sounds, and having a synthetic pelt that is an insult to my own luxurious fur. Its only potential merit is as a stationary, oversized dust bunny for me to nap against, provided its sound box is summarily disabled. Otherwise, it is a significant threat to my afternoon siesta and a complete waste of my attention.
I was in the midst of a particularly deep meditation on the structural integrity of the sunbeam bathing the living room rug when the sound of tearing cardboard violated the sanctity of the afternoon. My human, beaming with the sort of hope that is almost always disappointed, placed the offending object on the floor. It was a dog. Or, a cheap caricature of one, with glassy, unblinking eyes and a coat that smelled faintly of a factory. A low growl rumbled in my chest, a warning from the depths of my very soul. This was an intruder, a fluffy mockery of life, and I immediately disliked its cheerful, vacant stare.
My human, oblivious to my displeasure, attached the strange plastic handle to its back and gave it a shove in my direction. The creature lurched forward with a clumsy, rocking gait, its head bobbing as if agreeing with some silent, idiotic joke. Then came the sound—a tinny, electronic "Arf! Woof!" that was an affront to all natural auditory phenomena. I hissed, a sharp, clean sound of pure contempt. This was not the bark of a rival; it was the squeak of a poorly made contraption. I stalked forward, my gray tuxedo immaculate and my movements fluid, a stark contrast to the toy's graceless stagger. I gave its flank a tentative sniff. Plastic. I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped its fuzzy ear. Hollow.
The human, sensing my utter disdain for their offering as a "playmate," eventually abandoned the effort, leaving the plush canine sitting awkwardly in the middle of the room. Silence, blessed silence, returned. For a long while, I simply watched it from my perch on the armchair, a silent, furry judge passing sentence. The verdict: as an interactive companion, it was a dismal failure. However, my keen intellect saw another possibility. I gracefully leaped down, approached the silent statue, and with a deliberate and forceful nudge of my head, pushed it onto its side.
It was no longer a walking abomination. It was now a lumpy, oblong pillow. After a moment of consideration, I curled up against its flank, resting my chin upon its ridiculously soft, faux-fur back. It wasn't as good as the cashmere throw on the bed, of course, but it would do. The toy had failed its intended purpose, but I, in my infinite wisdom, had granted it a new, far more noble one: to serve as a prop for my magnificent self. It was, I decided with a final, sleepy blink, barely acceptable.
