Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a moment of what I can only assume was extreme budget-consciousness, has presented me with two flat, plastic rectangles. One is crudely decorated to look like a "Skate Park," the other a "Tricky Train," which I suppose passes for art in their world. Inside each transparent prison, a tiny metal sphere is trapped, destined to roll along prescribed paths at the whim of gravity. This is, apparently, a "puzzle." For me, it possesses no redeeming qualities. It does not crinkle, it is not filled with catnip, and it certainly won't flee in a satisfying manner. Its only potential use is as a coaster for my water bowl, or perhaps as an object to be summarily batted from the coffee table in the dead of night, its clatter a far more interesting feature than its intended purpose.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a flimsy wrapper, which was mildly diverting for a full ten seconds. Then my human liberated the two plastic slabs and sat on the floor, an expression of intense concentration on their face. They held the one with the train tracks and began to tilt it. A minuscule silver ball, a tiny, trapped soul, began its journey. The human would dip the world one way, and the soul would rush toward an edge. They would tilt it back, and it would reverse course, caught in an invisible current. They seemed to think this was a challenge, a game of skill. I saw it for what it was: a perfect, horrifying metaphor. I watched, motionless from my perch on the armchair, as the silver soul navigated the "Tricky Train" maze. It had no free will. Its path was predetermined by the plastic ridges and the whims of the giant, fleshy god that held its universe in its hands. It would rush forward, believing it was making progress, only to be foiled by a dead end it could not see, its direction dictated by a gentle tip of its creator’s wrist. Is this freedom? I thought, narrowing my eyes. A frantic scramble within a prison you don't even recognize? Then the human switched to the "Skate Park." This one was even more insidious. It offered the illusion of open space, of ramps and half-pipes—the promise of stylish rebellion. Yet, the silver soul was just as trapped. It could slide down a ramp, but only the one the tilt allowed. It could "grind a rail," but only the rail that was there. It was a perfect allegory for my own existence. The human thinks they are giving me choices: the salmon pâté or the tuna flakes? The feather wand or the laser dot? But the options are always curated, the boundaries of my world—the walls of this house—absolute. I did not pounce on the toy. I did not deign to bat at it. To do so would be to endorse the spectacle, to become just another mindless sphere rolling in a maze. Instead, I let out a soft, deliberate sigh, loud enough for the human to hear. I turned my back on the pathetic little drama and began to meticulously groom my white bib. The toy was not worthy of my play. It was, however, a profound, if cheap, philosophical text. It reminded me that while my tilt-master may provide sunbeams and soft beds, it is I who must maintain my own dignity within the maze.
