A Tale from Pete the Cat

The box was a disappointment. Flimsy, with none of the satisfying structural integrity required for a proper sit. From within its pathetic confines, my human extracted the crimson interloper. They spent an obscene amount of time twisting its limbs, finally posing it on the edge of the desk in a posture of what I can only assume was meant to be heroic triumph, one tiny plastic sword raised to the heavens. It stood there, a silent, scarlet affront to the natural order of things. It was an idol, and in this house, only one creature is worthy of worship. That evening, under the pale glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, I made my move. A silent leap placed me on the desk, a gray shadow moving through the clutter. I approached the statue, sniffing it with disdain. It smelled of nothing but chemicals and misguided ambition. I didn't swat it. That would be too simple, too crude. Instead, I nudged it gently with my forehead, a subtle application of force just behind its knee joint. As I’d calculated, its balance was compromised. It tipped, not with a crash, but with a soft, pathetic clatter, collapsing into a tangle of its own limbs. My work was not yet done. I located one of the spare hands the human had left nearby—an open, pleading one—and placed it delicately next to the figure's head, as if it had reached out in a final, futile gesture. The next morning, my human chuckled, calling me a "silly boy," and set the figure back up. This time, it was posed in a seated, meditative position. A fatal error. They thought this was a game. That night, I returned to the desk. The figure’s new pose made it much more stable, a challenge I accepted with relish. I ignored the limbs and went for the accessories. With the surgical precision of a paw, I hooked one of the tiny pistols from its hip holster and flicked it. It skittered across the polished wood of the desk and vanished over the edge. I heard the faintest *tink* as it landed somewhere on the floor. This is our new ritual. The human poses, and I… re-accessorize. The little red man is not a toy; he is a statement of defiance whose parts I am methodically liberating. One night a sword, the next a hand. The figure itself is a monument to boredom, but the strategic campaign to completely disarm and dismantle it piece by piece? That, I must admit, is a game worthy of my considerable intellect. It may not be a good toy, but it is an excellent long-term project.