A Tale from Pete the Cat

The ritual lasted for two days. My human, hunched over the low table in the living room, performed a strange and frustratingly loud ceremony. Tiny bags were ripped open, spilling forth a confetti of screws and plastic that I was, naturally, forbidden from investigating too closely. Instructions were squinted at on a glowing rectangle, accompanied by muttered curses that suggested the "Easy to Assemble" claim was, to put it mildly, optimistic. I watched from the arm of the sofa, occasionally flicking my tail in what the human interpreted as encouragement but was, in fact, profound pity. The final result was a crude, skeletal buggy with a chaotic nest of wires for a brain. It sat there, inert, an monument to wasted time. My nap was interrupted by a series of triumphant beeps. The human was pointing a small black rectangle at the contraption. With a high-pitched whine that set my teeth on edge, the little beast shuddered to life. Its wheels spun, and it lurched across the hardwood floor. It was clumsy, loud, and utterly artless. I yawned, preparing to dismiss it entirely, when it aimed itself directly at the leg of my favorite scratching post. I held my breath, anticipating the satisfying crunch of failure. But the crunch never came. A mere inch from impact, the buggy stopped dead. There was a faint clicking sound from its front-mounted "eyes"—two silver cylinders that swiveled as if in contemplation. It paused, then executed a turn with a precision that was frankly insulting. It had seen the post. It had *avoided* it. This was not the mindless wind-up mouse I was accustomed to. This thing had a sense of its surroundings. A primitive intelligence was at work. I slid from my perch, my paws silent on the rug. This required a more direct test. I strode into the center of the room and sat, presenting myself as an immovable, fluffy gray-and-white bastion of authority. The human, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, directed the robot toward me. It trundled forward, its little motor whining. Closer, closer it came. I narrowed my eyes, refusing to yield a single inch. Five inches away. Four. Three. It stopped. Its motor went silent. We stared at each other—my living, breathing superiority against its cold, calculating sensors. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, it beeped softly, reversed a few inches, and turned away, choosing a new path around my domain. The human cheered. I simply gave a slow blink. The test was complete. It was not a toy. It was a vassal. And it knew its lord.