Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has presented me with what appears to be a small, defeated navy. A flotilla of five dull gray plastic objects, apparently "replacement ships" from some human tabletop ritual, produced by a brand so laughably obscure it's referred to as an "unknown entity." They lack any scent, feathers, or electronic allure. On the surface, they are an insult to my refined sensibilities. However, their true purpose is immediately obvious to a mind like mine: they are perfectly weighted, low-profile projectiles designed for skittering across hardwood floors and disappearing into the dark, dusty nether-realms beneath furniture, where human hands cannot follow. A potential exercise in causing minor, prolonged frustration, which always has some appeal.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The drop was made at 1400 hours, right in the middle of the Great Sun Puddle of the living room. My human, whom I shall refer to only as The Handler, placed the five gray assets on the gleaming floor and retreated. I observed from my perch on the velvet armchair, my tail giving a slow, contemplative twitch. The targets were crude, angular, and devoid of personality. This was not a gift of affection; this was a test from the "unknown entity" that had supplied them. A field test. I descended with the deliberate grace of a shadow, my paws silent on the wood. The mission: assess the assets' tactical viability. I began with the largest, the one they call "Aircraft Carrier." A gentle tap with one paw sent it skidding silently, almost frictionless, across the floor. Its trajectory was predictable, but its momentum was impressive. It came to a halt precisely under the edge of the entertainment center. Good. A solid candidate for long-term strategic placement. Next, I moved to the smaller vessels. The "Destroyer" and "Cruiser" were lighter, more erratic. A sharp bat sent them spinning, their movement chaotic and hard to track. Excellent for a frantic, multi-target engagement. It was the "Submarine," however, that truly showed promise. It was small, sleek, and hugged the ground. A single, well-aimed swat sent it directly into the open maw of the heating vent. A perfect shot. It was gone. Forever. A wave of profound satisfaction washed over me. Finally, only the tiny "Patrol Boat" remained. It looked pathetic, an afterthought. I toyed with it for a moment, nudging it with my nose, before picking it up delicately in my mouth. The hard plastic was unpleasant, but the task was necessary. I carried it to the kitchen and deposited it silently into the water bowl, where it floated for a moment before sinking. A message to The Handler: some assets are not meant for land. The test was complete. The conclusion: while aesthetically bankrupt, these crude implements provided a surprisingly robust and satisfying exercise in object relocation and permanent loss. They are worthy. For now.
