A Tale from Pete the Cat

The day of its arrival was an assault on the senses. The air, usually thick with the delicate scent of grass and my own magnificent fur, was choked with the sound of a whining drill and the frustrated muttering of my primary staff member. From my post on the windowsill, I watched the wooden skeleton rise in my backyard. It was a clumsy, drawn-out affair, but the aroma of fresh-cut cedar was intriguing, a welcome change from the sterile plastics of my lesser toys. My human called it a "swing set." I called it an "unsolicited architectural project." When silence finally fell with the dusk, I slipped out through the cat flap, a grey shadow moving through the twilight. The structure loomed, larger than it had appeared from indoors. I circled it once, my tail held low in cautious appraisal. The wood was solid under my paws, and a test scratch with a single claw produced a satisfying sliver. This was quality material, not flimsy particle board. The so-called "Rock Wall Ladder" was my point of entry. It was an insult to call it a ladder; it was a cliff face, a worthy challenge. I scaled it with athletic grace, my claws finding purchase on the synthetic rocks, my muscles bunching and releasing in a display of pure predatory elegance. I emerged onto the platform, the command deck. This, I knew instantly, was the heart of the machine. From this height, I commanded a panoramic view of the entire pathetic kingdom—the birdbath, the twitching squirrel's oak tree, the neighbor's witless dog. A gentle breeze rustled the canopy above, and the mesh walls provided perfect concealment for a master of stealth. I saw a small chalk doodle left on the board below—a crude, lopsided sun. Pointless vandalism. I ignored it and settled onto the wooden floorboards, which still held the faint warmth of the afternoon sun. The dangling swings moved slightly in the wind, but up here, they were merely a distant annoyance. My human thinks this fortress is for the children. They are mistaken. The lower levels, with their silly slide and swinging pendulums, can be their domain. They are welcome to the dirt and the noise. But this tower, this cedar-scented perch high above the world, is mine. I stretched, extended my claws into the wood to officially mark my territory, and curled into a perfect, tuxedo-clad circle. The Buckley Hill Command Center was now operational, and its new commander was officially signing off for a well-deserved nap. It is, I must admit, worthy.