My human has brought home a large, flat, and unnecessarily colorful box they call an "Advent Calendar." Apparently, for 24 consecutive days, they will be opening a tiny door to reveal some trinket related to a "mystery." From my superior vantage point on the sofa, it seems to be an elaborate collection of small, eminently losable objects—cardboard furniture and shiny metal tokens. While the overarching narrative is clearly a pointless human endeavor designed to distract them from their primary purpose of serving me, the daily introduction of new, lightweight, bat-able items has a certain appeal. It is likely a waste of my valuable napping time, but the potential for one of those little tokens to "accidentally" fall to the floor is high, and I must be prepared.
The box arrived on a Tuesday, an affront to the calm, established order of the house. My human placed the large, garish object on the dining table, babbling about a "Snowfall Lodge" and a "mystery." I watched from the arm of the chair, feigning disinterest with a slow, deliberate blink. Another human contraption, full of rustling paper and strange smells. It was, I concluded, vastly inferior to the simple, elegant brown delivery boxes that make for superior napping forts. I dismissed it and began a thorough grooming of my pristine white bib.
The next morning, the ritual began. My human, with a level of excitement usually reserved for the opening of a can of tuna, approached the box. They carefully peeled open a little door marked '1'. My ear twitched. Inside, they found a tiny cardboard room and a small, shiny metal token of a woman in a red coat. They set it up on the box, which unfolded into some sort of board. My interest was piqued. That token was small, glinting under the light—the perfect size to be nudged off a high surface.
Over the next week, the collection of tempting objects grew. A tiny green man-token they called "Mr. Green," a miniature grand piano, and, most gloriously, a tiny, silver-colored rope. The humans would huddle over the board, reading their little paper clues and looking serious. I saw my opening when they turned their backs to refill their strange morning brew. In one fluid, silent motion, I was on the table. My paw reached out, a gentle but firm tap connecting with the tiny rope. It skittered beautifully across the glossy surface and vanished over the edge.
I heard the frantic searching later. "Where did the rope go? I just put it in the ballroom!" my human cried. From my cozy spot under the credenza, I watched them, the tiny silver coil safely tucked beneath my paw. Their mystery was some nonsense about a murder. The real mystery, I purred to myself, was how many of these delightful little trinkets I could liberate before the 24th day. This "game" was, against all odds, a resounding success. It was a well-designed, interactive toy dispenser, and I deemed it entirely worthy of my attention.
