My human, in her infinite and often misplaced wisdom, has presented me with what she calls a "game." From my analysis of the situation, it appears to be a collection of 52 small, flat squares of pressed paper pulp, each adorned with some sort of garish floral pattern. They come in a box, which is the only feature of true potential value here. The humans intend to place these squares face-down and flip them over to "match" them, a pointless exercise in memory that I, with my superior feline intellect, find offensively simple. The primary appeal, if one can call it that, would be batting these flimsy cards under heavy furniture or, perhaps, using the sturdy decorative box for a much-needed nap, once the useless contents have been appropriately dispatched.
The familiar crinkle of an Amazon package being opened did little to stir me from my sunbeam. It usually meant something for the human—more bland-smelling lotions or books with disappointingly rigid pages. But this time, she brought the box to the floor and cooed, "Look, Pete! A new game for us!" I cracked open an eye. A game? Unlikely. It was a box, admittedly a handsome one with those faint, flowery human patterns on it. A box is always a subject of professional interest. My hopes, however, were immediately dashed when she removed the lid, revealing not a cozy, empty space, but a stack of flimsy cardboard squares. A profound disappointment.
She began laying them out on the Persian rug, my Persian rug, in a neat grid. The sheer audacity. This was prime lounging territory she was desecrating with her "pretty patterns." I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail a metronome of irritation. The cards were slick, covered in roses and other foliage I couldn't be bothered to identify. The human started her ritual, flipping two cards, sighing when they didn't match, and turning them back over. This continued for several minutes. I have seen paint dry with more dramatic tension. It was an insult to my intelligence.
Deciding to take matters into my own paws, I stretched languidly, hopped down from my perch, and sauntered directly into the middle of her tedious grid. I sniffed a particularly chintzy-looking card, all pale pinks and greens, and gave it a delicate but firm tap. It shot across the hardwood floor, sliding beautifully until it disappeared under the entertainment center. Well now. *That* was interesting. A flicker of potential. The human sighed, "Pete, no," which I correctly interpreted as, "Pete, what a brilliant innovation."
I ignored her protest and proceeded to "improve" her game. A swift bat sent a blue one skittering under the sofa. A pounce-and-flick combo launched a yellow one toward the kitchen. The cards had a satisfying lightness, perfect for high-speed skittering but just flimsy enough that I knew I could shred one with minimal effort should the mood strike. The human eventually gave up, gathering the remaining cards and putting them back in the box. My final verdict: as a game for humans, it is a categorical failure. As a set of indoor hockey pucks, it is adequate. But the true prize, as is so often the case, was the packaging. She left the empty box on the floor. I inspected its dimensions, circled it twice, and settled inside. A perfect fit. The toy is irrelevant; the box is sublime. It is worthy.
