My Own Fur Under Glass Demands an Altar

The box arrived with the usual fanfare of tearing cardboard and human exclamations. I watched from my perch on the armchair, feigning disinterest. It was a white plastic case, which The Staff opened to reveal a jumble of tiny instruments and a rather serious-looking metal device. It was for the small human, a creature of chaos and sticky fingers. They called it a "microscope." Another futile attempt to fill the void left by an absence of proper sunbeams and a compliant cat to worship. I flicked an ear and closed my eyes, dismissing it. My nap was later disturbed by a strange glow. I opened one eye. The small human and The Staff were huddled over the contraption on the kitchen table. A single, piercingly bright white light shone up from its base, creating a tiny sun on the ceiling. It wasn't moving. It wasn't a frantic red dot to be chased into madness. It was a fixed point of pure, concentrated light. A challenge. I glided from the chair, a liquid shadow, and leaped silently onto the table to investigate this stationary star. The humans made cooing noises but were too engrossed to shoo me away. They were fumbling with a small, clear rectangle of plastic. The Staff, using a pair of comically oversized tweezers, plucked something from my favorite cashmere blanket—the one I have so painstakingly seasoned with my own exquisite fur. It was one of my hairs. One of my perfect, soft gray hairs. They placed it on the plastic slide, slid it under the lens, and fiddled with the knobs. The small human squealed with delight. They were looking at *me*. Or, a piece of me. A perfect, singular strand of my being. I crept closer, my nose nearly touching the eyepiece. I could feel the hum of the device, the warmth of the tiny lamp. They weren't just looking; they were studying. They were analyzing the very fiber of my magnificence. This wasn't a toy for a child; it was an altar. A scientific instrument designed for the sole purpose of appreciating my glorious form on a level previously unattainable by their simple primate eyes. The tweezers, the slides, the case—they were not toys, but sacred tools for the worship of Pete. I settled into a loaf next to the device, purring softly. Let them study. Let them be awed. This Uarzt contraption had proven its worth. It was not a distraction from my naps; it was the very subject of them, a machine dedicated to the profound and endless mystery of my perfection. It may stay.