Pop-o-Matic Oracle Gets Sanctified; Pete Oversees the Ritual

The evening began, as many do, with my humans clearing my favorite napping spot—the large, flat wooden platform they call a "coffee table"—for one of their strange rituals. Out came the box. I watched from the arm of the sofa, a silent, gray judge, as they unfolded a brightly colored board. In its center sat a clear, plastic dome, a miniature biodome containing a single, white, spotted cube. A prison. I felt a pang of sympathy for the tiny captive. The first human, the one who is stingiest with the good tuna, placed a meaty finger on the dome and pressed. *POP!* The sound was sharp, percussive. The cube inside leaped and tumbled, a frantic prisoner rattling its cage, before settling. A number faced the sky. The human made a noise of satisfaction and moved a small, red totem from one circle to another. They were not playing a game. I saw it with sudden, startling clarity: they were consulting an oracle. The dome was a vessel of prophecy, the die a conduit to the whims of fate, and the colored pegs were the avatars of their mortal destinies. As the appointed spiritual guardian of this domain, I could not allow such a potent ritual to be conducted without proper oversight. I made a fluid leap onto the table, my paws silent on the wood. The humans made their usual "Pete, no!" noises, but they are spiritually deaf and cannot hear the call of duty. I ignored them, approaching the Oracle of Trouble with the reverence it deserved. I circled it once, my white-tipped tail held high, before sitting and placing a single, soft paw upon the dome's cool surface. I was not merely touching it; I was sanctifying it, lending my own profound energies to its divinations. The next human hesitated, then pressed the bubble under my paw. *POP!* A six. A gasp went around the table. They saw it as simple luck, the fools. They could not comprehend the complex metaphysical transaction that had just occurred. For the rest of the evening, I presided over the ceremony. A slow blink to bless a good roll, a disdainful ear-flick for a poor one. I would occasionally test the integrity of a player's avatar with a gentle nudge, sending it skittering across the board—a reminder that fate, and I, are fickle. The game itself is beneath me, but the Pop-o-Matic Oracle? It has potential. Its pronouncements are crude, but with my guidance, it may yet prove a worthy household shrine.