So, my Human has presented me with what they call "Robot Sensory Travel Toys." From what I can deduce—between grooming sessions, of course—these are a set of four brightly colored plastic humanoids with suction cup feet and extendable, crinkly limbs. The suction cups are the most promising feature, suggesting these things can be affixed to a smooth surface like the window or the forbidden refrigerator door for a proper, stationary batting challenge. The "pop tube" limbs, which stretch and make noise, could be a stimulating auditory experience, or they could just be obnoxious. Frankly, while the packaging seems to be screaming about their appeal to small, clumsy humans, the combination of suction, sound, and a spinnable head might just elevate this from "pathetic plastic junk" to a "mildly amusing five-minute diversion."
I was enjoying a particularly exquisite shaft of afternoon sun, my gray fur warmed to a perfect temperature, when the Human approached. They loomed over me, holding a garish, bright blue plastic creature. I offered a slow, deliberate blink of utter indifference. Another piece of plastic, I presumed, destined for the same under-the-sofa graveyard where the feather-less wands and bell-less balls go to die. The Human placed it on the hardwood floor in front of me with a pathetic little click. I yawned, showing off my formidable fangs as a warning.
But then, the Human did something unexpected. They pressed down on the object, and with a firm *thwump*, it stuck to the floor. My ears, which had been in neutral, swiveled forward. A stationary target? This changed the calculus. I rose, performed a long, luxurious stretch to make it clear this was my decision and mine alone, and sauntered over. I gave the robot a tentative tap with a single, well-manicured paw. It wobbled precariously but held its ground. Its head spun in a circle. Intriguing. I batted it again, a little harder this time, and the satisfying whir of the spinning head was my reward.
Just as my interest was beginning to wane, the Human pulled on one of the robot's arms. A horrendous, yet captivating, sound erupted—a sort of *crrrinkle-pop-zip!* as the tube-like limb extended to twice its length. My eyes widened. The sound was not unlike the crinkle tunnel I occasionally deign to enter, but more interactive. I crouched, my tail giving a sharp, interested flick. I lashed out, hooking a claw into the extended blue limb and pulling. It retracted with a corresponding *zoop-crinkle!* I did it again. *Pop!* And again. *Zip!* This was not merely a toy; this was an instrument, and I was its virtuoso.
The Human, sensing my approval, then stuck the yellow one to the sliding glass door at my eye level. A vertical opponent. A true test of skill. I crouched low, wiggling my hindquarters in preparation for a full-scale assault. I launched myself, not with the intent to destroy, but to conquer. My paws hit the wobbling robot, my claws sinking ever so slightly into its ridged limbs. I pulled, and the glorious crinkling sound filled the air. This was a worthy adversary. It was noisy, it was resilient, it could be mounted anywhere. I decided then and there: the plastic robots could stay. For now.
