A Tale from Pete the Cat

The contraption arrived on a Tuesday, a day typically reserved for extended naps in the western sunbeam. My human, however, had other plans, assembling the pale tube and its flimsy legs with the sort of hushed reverence usually reserved for opening a can of premium tuna. They called it a telescope. I called it an affront to the room's feng shui. It stood on a small table by the window, a silent, one-eyed sentinel aimed at the sky. I circled it, my tail twitching with disdain. A "finder scope"? A parasite on the main body. "Tabletop Tripod"? A fancy name for a guaranteed-to-be-wobbly stand. This was clearly another human folly, destined to gather dust next to the yoga mat. That night, the ritual began. The human dimmed the lights, a promising start that usually precedes quiet adoration of my magnificent self. Instead, they fiddled with the machine. I heard them muttering about the "smooth mount system" as the tube swiveled with a faint, plastic whir. They would squint into the small eyepiece, then swap it for the other, babbling about "magnification." It became clear to me what was happening. This was not a viewing instrument. It was a long-range communication device. My human was attempting to make contact with the Great Round Mouse in the Sky, the one that dangles so mockingly out of reach every night. My opportunity came when my human went to fetch more of their strange-smelling bean water. Leaping silently onto the table, I bypassed the eyepiece entirely. A true intellectual investigates the source. I peered directly into the large, main lens. I saw the room reflected, distorted and strange. But behind my own ghostly image, I saw it. Captured and held within the glass was the Moon itself. And it was not a flat, boring light. It was a vast, pockmarked ball of the most glorious, silvery-white cosmic yarn I had ever seen. The craters were not craters; they were divots and snags, proof of eons of celestial play. This so-called "beginner" telescope was, in fact, an instrument of the most profound psychological torture. It did not just show me the Moon; it showed me the ultimate toy, the eternal ball of yarn, forever suspended in a place my paws could never reach. The NASA branding was a taunt from the highest order of intergalactic tormentors. My verdict was clear: this was not a toy to be played with. This was an idol to be worshipped, a source of endless, maddening inspiration. I will now spend my nights beside it, not in boredom, but in a state of ambitious longing, plotting the day I finally unravel the sky. It is, in its cruelty, a masterpiece.