A Review · From:
Nine Wooden Bipeds Scattered in Ten Minutes of Gleeful Tyranny
Our critic dispatches all nine wooden figures to distant corners, pins Dad under a paw as a trophy, and pronounces them excellent projectiles if poor substitutes for real prey.
By Pete · Resident Feline Critic · Filed from beneath the coffee table
So, my human has presented me with a tribe of miniature wooden bipeds, apparently a complete "family" unit. From what I can gather, these are small, jointed figures intended to populate one of those sad, tiny houses that lack any decent windows for birdwatching. Their primary appeal, from my superior vantage point, seems to be their size and material. Being made of wood, they promise a satisfying *skitter-clack* sound when batted across the hardwood floors. Their supposed "action" capabilities are likely just a fancy way of saying their limbs will flail about amusingly when they are inevitably sent flying. While they are clearly a pathetic substitute for a live mouse, they might—*might*—provide a brief, chaotic diversion from an afternoon nap.
The offering was presented with the usual cooing and nonsensical chatter my human reserves for such occasions. I, of course, was in the middle of a vital sunbeam absorption session on the living room rug and could only be bothered to open one eye. On the floor before me sat a collection of small, stiff-looking figures, staring blankly into the middle distance. Nine of them. An entire tiny, silent mob. I gave a dismissive tail-flick and closed my eye again. This was clearly beneath me.
But the silence they kept was... unnerving. After my human retreated, I rose, stretched languidly to show how little I cared, and sauntered over. I lowered my head, my perfect white bib nearly brushing the "Grandpa" figure. He smelled of paint and sawdust, a wholly unappetizing combination. With the delicate precision of a surgeon, I extended a single, sharp claw and gave the "Dad" figure a gentle poke. He tipped over with a pathetic little *tink*. How undignified.
This, however, gave me an idea. I drew back a paw and gave the figure a proper swat. The result was spectacular. The little wooden man went airborne, spinning end over end before clattering loudly against the baseboard. A thrill shot through me. I turned my attention to the others. The "Mom" went skidding under the armchair. The "Twins" were dispatched in a single, glorious swipe. I was a furry, gray god of chaos, rearranging this family's entire existence with the flick of a paw. Their flexible limbs meant they landed in all sorts of amusingly defeated poses.
I spent the next ten minutes in a state of gleeful tyranny, scattering the tiny people to the farthest corners of the room. My initial assessment was, as usual, correct: they were ridiculous. But they were also excellent projectiles. While they could never replace the thrill of a real hunt, their capacity for generating noise and disorder was commendable. I located the "Dad" figure again, pinned him under my paw, and began to groom, a victor enjoying the spoils. They could stay. For now.
Exhibit A — the specimen
Pete's Verdict
★★★☆☆
Excellent projectiles. They can stay.
Classified
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Should you insist. Pete is unbothered either way.
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