My human seems to have mistaken me for a "kid" or perhaps a "cake" that needs "topping." I am neither. Before me is a collection of twelve small, hard plastic quadrupeds, apparently called "horses." They claim to be "deluxe" and "realistic," but I see no fur, no feathers, and they certainly don't smell like anything I'd care to hunt. They are entirely static, offering none of the satisfying wobble of a good milk-jug ring or the frantic energy of the red dot. However, their size is intriguing. They seem perfectly calibrated to be swatted across the floor and, with a bit of skill, sent skittering into the dark abyss beneath the sofa. This might be a minor diversion, but it feels like a significant waste of resources that could have been spent on high-grade tuna or a proper feather wand.
The interruption to my mid-afternoon sunbeam session was, as usual, unwelcome. The human approached with a crinkly plastic bag, their voice pitched in that high, hopeful tone that usually precedes an insult to my intelligence. They tipped the contents onto the floor, and a herd of silent, stiff-legged creatures clattered across the hardwood. I gave a single, unimpressed flick of my ear. Horses. I've seen their larger, smellier counterparts on the screen the humans stare at. These smelled only of a factory. I looked from the plastic imposters to my human's face, hoping my expression conveyed the profound disappointment I felt.
My duty as the household's sole quality control officer, however, demanded a closer inspection. I rose, stretched with a languid elegance that these toys could never replicate, and padded over. I lowered my head and sniffed a black one. Nothing. I gave it a tentative pat with a single, extended claw. It was hard, unyielding, and slid a few inches with an unsatisfying scrape. This was not a toy. This was an obstacle. I was about to turn away, to return to the serious business of my nap, when a thought occurred to me.
I narrowed my eyes, focusing on a palomino figure standing slightly apart from the others. It had a certain arrogance in its plastic posture. With a sudden burst of energy, I gave it a solid *thwack* with my paw. The horse shot across the floor, ricocheted off the leg of the coffee table with a satisfying *clack*, and vanished perfectly into the dark, dusty void under the entertainment center. A slow blink. I looked at the remaining eleven. Then back at the void. A new game had just been invented.
My human cooed, "Oh, Pete, you like them!" They, of course, missed the point entirely. This wasn't about liking the horses. This was about *disappearing* them. I selected another, a dappled gray one, and with a flick of my wrist, sent it to join its friend in the land of lost things and dust bunnies. One by one, I would dispatch this silent herd to the inaccessible corners of the apartment. They were not toys to be played with, but projectiles to be mastered. Primitive, yes, but they would serve their purpose. My purpose. For a few minutes, at least.
