Cold Metal Hand Offers Nothing; Its Box Does Fine

I was deep in a truly magnificent slumber, curled in a perfect circle within a particularly golden patch of afternoon sun, when the disturbance occurred. The Human knelt beside me, a small, dark box held out like an offering. I cracked open one eye. A box. Promising. I do enjoy a good box. I deigned to uncurl myself, stretching with a languid grace that I knew they appreciated, and sauntered over. But the object they removed from the box was an immediate disappointment. It was a cold, heavy lump of bronze-colored metal. It smelled of nothing but factory and cardboard. With a sigh of profound boredom, I gave the object a tentative pat with my softest gray paw. It didn't skitter. It didn't wobble. It simply slid a few inches across the hardwood with a dull, unsatisfying *thud*. The Human chuckled, as if this were the peak of entertainment. I looked from the inert metal hand to their smiling face and back again. Were they serious? This was the best they could do? There was no string, no fuzzy tail, not even a pathetic jingle. I nudged it with my nose. It was cold and hard. A complete sensory failure. Then I saw the back of it. A long, sharp pin. A hazard! An insult! It became clear this was never meant for me. This was one of their strange adornments, something they'd fasten to their chest to signal their importance to other humans. The only fleeting potential I could see was if the sun caught its polished surface just right, it might—*might*—cast a danceable speck of light on the wall. But I am not a kitten to be so easily amused. I gave the metal hand one last, disdainful look, turned my back on it, and leapt gracefully onto the sofa. The box, however, was a different story. It was the perfect size for sitting in. The toy was a failure, but the packaging gets a passing grade.