Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a relic from a bygone era, something called "A Question of Scruples." It's a box filled with little paper rectangles, apparently designed to make humans sit in a circle and drone on about "moral dilemmas." While the box itself presents a promising napping vessel of a certain vintage quality, and the cards within could offer a few minutes of satisfying batting practice, the core concept is a monumental waste of time. The humans will be entirely engrossed in their own hypothetical predicaments, forgetting their primary moral dilemma: whether my food bowl is precisely half-full or needs immediate topping off. It seems a tedious affair, destined to gather dust unless I decide the box is the perfect size for a strategic nap ambush.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The humans exhumed this dusty blue sarcophagus from the closet, an artifact from a time when their fur was bigger and their judgment clearly poorer. They called it "A Question of Scruples." The scent of aged cardboard and forgotten arguments wafted out as they opened it. They sat on the floor, a place I generally consider my exclusive territory, and began reading from the little cards, their voices filled with mock gravity. I observed from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation at this intrusion upon my evening peace. Then, the female human read one aloud. "You are a guest in a friend's home. You accidentally break a valuable antique. Do you confess?" The other humans murmured, pondering this simplistic puzzle. Confess? What a ridiculous notion. It reminded me of a far more complex situation I had faced just last week. I had discovered, through a feat of acrobatic prowess and sheer determination, that the large, rustling bag atop the pantry contained not the usual dry kibble, but a treasure trove of freeze-dried salmon treats. The *good* ones. The bag was precariously balanced. One well-aimed nudge would send it tumbling down in a glorious, fishy avalanche. My dilemma was profound, a true crucible of character. Do I unleash the salmon-pocalypse, risking a loud crash and the subsequent confiscation of my prize, not to mention a stern talking-to? Or do I exercise restraint, leaving the bag untouched in the hopes of a future, sanctioned handout? The humans' "broken antique" was a matter of simple replacement; my situation involved the potential loss of a life-altering quantity of salmon. The tension was unbearable. For a full ten seconds, I wrestled with my conscience, my id, and my very soul. In the end, of course, I sent the bag crashing to the floor. The humans can chatter all they want about their trivial little cards. They know nothing of real-world ethics. They have never faced the choice between immediate, overwhelming bliss and the vague possibility of future, lesser bliss. This "game" is a hollow charade, a play-acted morality for beings who have never had to decide whether to devour an entire bag of salmon treats before the slow-moving giants return to the kitchen. I am my own moral compass, and it always points toward the fish. The game is unworthy.
