A Tale from Pete the Cat

The crime scene was the vanity. The human had completed her strange ritual, leaving behind the evidence: the hollow, bisected sphere of a "mystery capsule" and its five tiny, silent offspring lined up near the mirror. They were imposters, Lilliputian versions of the full-sized bottles and tubs that held no interest for me. A miniature hairspray? An insult to the very concept of aerosol. A tiny face cream? Pointless. I landed on the polished surface with the silence of a passing shadow, my gray tuxedo immaculate against the morning light. It was time for an interrogation. My first subject was a minuscule, bright red lipstick tube. I leaned in, sniffing. Nothing. Not a hint of the waxy, floral scent of its larger counterpart. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave it a gentle tap. It wobbled but held its ground. A stoic little suspect. I nudged it more firmly. It slid an inch, its plastic base whispering against the wood. It was giving me nothing. No confession, no scent, no satisfying skitter. I dismissed it with a flick of my tail and moved down the line. The next in line was a squat, cylindrical jar of what was supposed to be a fancy cream. It had more heft. My initial pat sent it spinning in a tight, dizzying circle. Now this was interesting. A different response, a different behavior. I gave it a proper swat. The little jar shot across the vanity like a curling stone, ricocheting off a perfume bottle with a delightful *tink!* before coming to rest near the edge. A breakthrough! The suspects weren't meant to be questioned; they were meant to be provoked. I turned my attention to the remaining three, my eyes glinting with newfound purpose. One by one, they were subjected to the full force of my investigation. A tiny shampoo bottle was sent flying in a perfect arc, landing softly on the plush rug below. The hairspray canister proved to be an excellent skitter-bug, sliding clear across the room on the hardwood floor just outside the bathroom door. The final piece, a small, boxy replica of an eyeshadow palette, was the grand finale. With a calculated swipe, I launched it directly off the precipice of the vanity. It vanished into the dark, dusty abyss beneath the dresser, a place from which nothing returns. My work was done. Verdict: while utterly useless as collectibles, these tiny objects are, in fact, superb projectiles and agents of domestic chaos. They are worthy. For now.