A Masterpiece of Auditory Failure Worth Requesting Often

The object was placed on the floor with a gentle thud and a hideously cheerful, "Look what I got for you, Pete!" I observed it from my throne atop the sofa's armrest, tail giving a single, dismissive flick. It was an affront of primary colors. The Staff—my primary human—poked it, and the thing erupted in a synthesized jingle that was a crime against music. I closed my eyes, feigning a deep slumber, hoping the monstrosity would be forgotten. But then, a new sound pierced my feigned peace. A robotic voice chirped, "Duck!" followed by a "Quack! Quack!" so profoundly artificial it sounded like a dying modem. My ear twitched. This was not the sound of prey. This was a mockery of prey. An insult to the entire anatidae family, whom I enjoy watching from the window with great murderous intent. What kind of creature made such a noise? My scientific curiosity, a faculty I rarely employ for anything less than locating the weak point in a bag of treats, was piqued. I descended from the sofa with the deliberate grace of a predator investigating a strange new phenomenon. I circled the plastic book, sniffing its sterile edges. It smelled of nothing, a void where the rich scent of fur, feather, or fear should be. The Staff, mistaking my intellectual inquiry for interest, tapped a picture of a striped animal. "¡Tigre!" the box declared, followed by a roar that sounded less like a distant cousin and more like a vacuum cleaner choking on a dust bunny. The sheer audacity of it. The gall. I lifted a paw, claws carefully sheathed, and pressed down on a picture of a pig. "Oink! Oink!" it squealed. I was not playing. I was conducting a systematic interrogation. I poked the frog. I prodded the sheep. Each sound was a new, fascinating level of auditory failure. My final verdict came as I sat, staring at the book, my tail now twitching with amusement, not annoyance. As a toy, it is a pathetic failure. It will never replace a crumpled ball of paper or the frantic dance of a laser dot. But as an artifact of human strangeness? As a bizarre, interactive sculpture that produces an endless symphony of terrible noises? It is a masterpiece of absurdity. I will not hunt it, but I will, from time to time, demand The Staff activate it. It is important to be reminded of how very odd the world outside my perfect, sunbeam-filled life can be.