A Tale from Pete the Cat

The day the armory arrived, I was napping in a particularly satisfying patch of sun on the living room rug. The sound of tearing cardboard, a harbinger of either tribute or tribulation, roused me. My human, with the glee of a simpleton, pulled eighteen identical, garishly colored objects from the box. My eyes narrowed. I recognized the form factor immediately from the moving pictures the humans watch: weaponry. They were lightweight, clearly designed for a highly mobile infantry, and their bright colors were obviously a form of psychological warfare, meant to disorient the enemy. I shadowed the primary human to the outdoor water faucet, my movements silent, my tuxedo markings providing excellent camouflage against the shaded patio stones. He filled one of the devices—the "reloading" process was swift and efficient. Then, with a few pumps, he aimed it at a rose bush. A jet of water, my mortal enemy, shot out with terrifying velocity, striking a bloom some thirty feet away. I flattened myself to the ground, my heart thumping. This was no mere toy. This was a long-range tactical water cannon. They were preparing for an invasion. But from whom? The insolent squirrels? The mail carrier? The following afternoon, the "invasion" began. Except, the invaders were more humans—small, loud ones and their larger, equally loud counterparts. Each was handed a weapon upon arrival. I watched from the safety of the glass door, a silent sentinel observing the unfolding madness. What followed was not a coordinated defense against a common foe, but a chaotic free-for-all. A civil war. They turned on each other, shrieking with a bizarre mix of aggression and delight as they launched volley after volley of water. Alliances formed and crumbled in seconds. No one was safe. My pristine fur bristled at the mere thought of a stray drop breaching my sanctuary. I retired to my velvet cushion on the second-floor landing, a vantage point offering a panoramic view of the battlefield below. It was utter pandemonium. The humans, drenched and defeated, were laughing. It was the most inefficient and undignified form of combat I had ever witnessed. There was no strategy, no objective, just... dampness. My final verdict is this: these water blasters are absurd. They are instruments of a senseless, soggy war. However, they successfully corralled all the humans into one specific, outdoor location for several hours, leaving the interior of the house blissfully quiet and entirely mine. For its strategic value in ensuring my uninterrupted peace and sole dominion over the sunbeams, I must begrudgingly approve. Just keep it away from me.