Conquered by Climbing Up Instead of Sliding Down

The monstrosity arrived in three giant, green pieces, like the dismembered limbs of some plastic behemoth. My human spent the better part of a Saturday grunting and consulting baffling pictograms, a process I supervised from the cool, elegant safety of the windowsill. He was building a tribute, a great, green tongue lolling out from the wooden fort in the yard, and it offended my aesthetic sensibilities. I watched as this "Swing-N-Slide" was bolted into place, a silent, unmoving invader in my territory. It smelled of industry and artificiality, a stark contrast to the rich, earthy aromas of the gopher holes I occasionally inspect. For two days, it was a silent war. I would sit on the patio, narrowing my eyes, letting the green giant know it was being watched. I refused to grant it the dignity of my attention, even when the small humans shrieked with delight while rocketing down its slick surface. Their joy was irrelevant. This was a matter of territory, not of play. The structure was an affront, a challenge to my sovereignty over the backyard kingdom. It had to be understood who the true master of this domain was. Then came the third evening, under the cloak of a deep blue dusk. The air was still, the yard empty. It was my time. I approached the base of the slide not as a plaything, but as a mountain to be conquered. To slide down it would be to submit to its intended purpose, an act of surrender. I would not. Instead, I began to climb *up*. My claws found little purchase on the smooth polyethylene, but I am Pete, and my determination is as sharp as my teeth. I scrabbled and scraped, a slow, arduous ascent up the belly of the beast. It was a pilgrimage of defiance. Reaching the summit—the five-foot-high platform—was a moment of pure triumph. I stood there, my gray and white tuxedo fur glowing in the twilight, and surveyed my kingdom from this new, superior vantage point. The world was spread beneath me. I could see the entire fence line, the bird bath, and the weak spot in the neighbor's hedge. The slide was no longer an opponent; it was merely the grand, albeit tacky, staircase to my new throne. It had been subjugated. It was not a toy to be played with, but a monument to my own magnificent ascent. It was, I decided, worthy.