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A Tale from Pete the Cat

The thing arrived on a Tuesday, a day I usually reserve for intense observation of a particularly brazen squirrel. My human, The Keeper, placed the purple plastic chest on the floor with a reverent thud, as if it were a delivery from a foreign potentate. It smelled of industry and faint, chemical sweetness. I approached with caution, my tail a rigid question mark. "State your business," I conveyed with a low growl that was, of course, misinterpreted as a purr. The chest remained silent, its glossy surface reflecting a distorted, far less handsome version of myself. It was an imposter in my domain. The Keeper, oblivious to the silent interrogation taking place, unlatched the front. The lid sprang open, releasing a jumble of color and the crinkle of cheap fabric. It was a clown's treasure box. I peered inside, my nose twitching with disdain. These were not the fine silks and wools I deign to nap upon. This was the stuff of nightmares: thin, scratchy polyester masquerading as satin, and skirts so flimsy a strong breeze from the air vent could send them into the ether. A pile of plastic "jewels" clattered within, their hollow sound an insult to the solid, satisfying thud of the ice cubes I occasionally steal from The Keeper's glass. My investigation led me to a single, pathetic artifact: a "soft goods tiara." It was a limp, sequined crescent of fabric that drooped sadly over the edge of the trunk. A crown? This sad little headband was no crown. My own ears, tall and alert and covered in the softest gray fur, were a far more regal diadem than this bit of fluff. I watched as the small human, squealing with a delight I shall never comprehend, donned the blue rags of "Cinderella" and the pathetic tiara. She pranced around the room, a pretender to a throne that was never hers to claim. I gave a dismissive flick of my tail, spraying the garish trunk with a fine mist of my own superior fur. The creature inside the box was a charlatan, peddling cheap fantasies. I would not be taken in. Leaving the small human to her pantomime, I retired to the sunbeam by the window. The box itself, however... I made a mental note. Once this "enchanting" phase had passed and the trunk was inevitably abandoned, its dimensions seemed perfectly suited for a being of my stature. I would claim it then, gut it of its fraudulent contents, and consecrate it as a proper throne room. A king must be patient.