My human has procured another plastic distraction from the smiling box company, this time a contraption of tedious inquiry involving flipping tiny portraits of bland-looking humans and, I must admit, pets. The premise seems to be a slow, methodical process of elimination based on superficial traits, which is frankly how I judge all visitors to this house anyway, though I do it with far more efficiency and disdain. I will concede a sliver of interest due to the inclusion of "pet" characters, though their cartoonish depictions are a mild insult to my own majestic form. The true playability, however, likely lies not in the intended rules, but in the satisfying clatter all those little plastic windows would make when swept to the floor by a well-aimed paw. It might be a waste of my napping time, unless I'm allowed to be the agent of chaotic resets.
The smell of fresh plastic and cardboard awoke me from a perfectly good sunbeam-nap on the antique rug. My human, The Provider of Sustenance and Head Scratches, was hunched over the coffee table, making small, frustrating popping sounds. I stretched, extending each claw deliberately, and padded over to investigate this new disturbance. She had assembled two garish plastic grids, one red and one blue, and was populating them with a gallery of faces. Humans, mostly. Some with foolishly large glasses, others with truly unfortunate hair. My initial assessment was bleak: another pointless human ritual.
But then, my tail, which had been hanging in limp boredom, gave an involuntary twitch. She pulled out a second sheet of faces. Not human faces. There was a dog with a dopey grin, a goldfish whose entire personality was its bowl, and a cat. A gray cat. They had the audacity to name him "Leo." He had no tuxedo markings, no air of cynical intelligence, no hint of the pampered luxury that defines a truly superior feline. He was a low-resolution mockery, and I was deeply, personally offended by his existence on that cardboard sheet.
The Provider, oblivious to my simmering rage, began to play against herself, a habit of hers I find both sad and convenient. "Does your person wear a hat?" she chirped to the empty space on the other side of the table. She flipped down a few portraits. *Click. Click. Clack.* The game, I deduced, was about erasing the unworthy. It was a slow, inefficient method of passing judgment. My own method is far superior, involving a swift swat or a pointed stare, but I could appreciate the core principle. This game was not about guessing who. It was about deciding who was not fit to be seen.
With a sudden, athletic leap that belied my leisurely disposition, I landed squarely in the middle of the coffee table, scattering the discarded cardboard frames. The Provider gasped. I ignored her. I walked with silent, deliberate steps to her blue grid. I sniffed at the dog. *Click.* With a gentle nudge of my nose, his portrait was gone. I moved to the bird. *Click.* Vanished. One by one, I passed sentence on the lesser creatures, flipping down their windows with the finality of a god. I left only the impostor, "Leo." I stared at him, my green eyes narrowing. Then, with a slow, almost gentle press of my paw, I flipped him down, too. The board was now empty.
I looked up at The Provider, whose face was a mixture of surprise and dawning amusement. I had answered her game. The winner? No one. There is only me. I hopped off the table, my point made, and returned to my sunbeam, leaving her to her plastic monument of my unquestionable supremacy. The toy, I decided, was worthy. Not as a game, but as a platform.
