A Tale from Pete the Cat

It began as a violation of my airspace. A new scent, sharp and saccharine, cut through the familiar, comforting aroma of sun-warmed upholstery and my human's Earl Grey tea. It was the smell of a berry, but a berry that had never known soil or sun—a chemist’s mockery of fruit. My ears swiveled, my tail gave a single, irritated twitch. The source was a glossy red box, which the human was handling with a reverence usually reserved for the opening of a fresh can of tuna. My interest was piqued, despite my better judgment. With a series of crinkles and a soft sigh of nostalgia from my staff, the prisoner was revealed. A small creature with unnervingly wide blue eyes, a mop of offensively fragrant red hair, and legs clad in a shade of green that should be illegal. It stood there, propped up by the human's hand, radiating its artificial sweetness. I approached with the cautious, low-to-the-ground gait I reserve for suspicious beetles and the vacuum cleaner. I extended a single, perfect white paw, claws sheathed, and gave its head a tentative tap. The head swiveled on its neck, a surprisingly smooth motion. Intriguing. The hair, while smelling of lies, had a certain texture that was not entirely unpleasant against my pads. The human, mistaking my scientific inquiry for affection, set the doll down on the rug. An invitation. I circled it once, my tuxedo fur a stark contrast to its riot of color. It was motionless. Pathetic. I delivered a swift, testing pat to its side, sending it skittering across the hardwood. The sound was a satisfying, light *skrr-tck-tck*. Better. The human then produced a tiny plastic basket, one of the so-called "surprises." Now *this* was a different matter entirely. This was an object of purpose. It was small enough to carry, light enough to flip, and shaped perfectly to be lost under the credenza for weeks. I ignored the doll. My focus was singular. With a deft hook of my claw, I snagged the tiny basket and bolted, leaving the sweet-smelling sentinel standing alone in the vast expanse of the living room. The doll, I concluded, was merely a flashy herald for the arrival of a truly worthy toy. It could stand there and smell of fake strawberries all it wanted; I had secured the real prize. It was a successful mission. The plastic child could watch, scenting up my nap spot, but the basket was now mine, destined for a glorious career of being hunted in the dead of night.