A Tale from Pete the Cat

The construction was an ordeal. Two of the larger humans grunted and sweated for hours under the afternoon sun, assembling the metal skeleton of the beast they called Jumpzylla. I watched from the cool shade of the patio, my tail twitching in disapproval as the great, black circle took shape, blotting out a significant patch of my favorite grass. It was then encased in a fine, black mesh—a "safety enclosure," they called it. I called it a holding pen for wild beasts. Finally, they attached a small, flimsy ladder, a pathetic invitation to ascend into the belly of the thing. My verdict was swift: it was a vulgar and offensive blight upon my kingdom. The following days were a cacophony. The small humans, released from their indoor confinement, would clamber up the ladder and commence their ritual. The air filled with shrieks of delight, but all I heard was noise. The ground beneath my paws vibrated with each thud of their feet on the taut surface, a rhythmic, nauseating tremor that disturbed my meditations. I would sit, a regal figure of gray and white fur, and watch them flail about within their cage, utterly devoid of grace. They were fools, entertained by the simplest of physics, and their toy was an instrument of torture designed to disrupt the sophisticated tranquility of my existence. Then came a day of perfect silence. The humans had vacated the premises, leaving the Jumpzylla to bake silently in the sun. A profound curiosity, a trait I typically disdain as a sign of a simple mind, began to stir. I approached the monolith. The air above its black mat shimmered with heat. With a deliberate, dignified stretch, I placed a paw on the first rung of the ladder. It was sturdy enough. I ascended, my claws making soft clicks on the plastic. Reaching the top, I stepped out onto the vast, dark expanse. It was exquisitely warm, and the surface gave just slightly under my weight, like the finest memory foam mattress. From this new vantage point, my world was transformed. I was no longer a creature of the ground, but a monarch upon his dais. I could see clean over the fence, observing the undignified sniffing habits of the beagle next door. The sparrows flitting in the highest branches of the oak tree were now at eye level, their secrets laid bare before me. This was not a toy for jumping. This was a watchtower. A throne room. A grand, sun-warmed platform from which I could survey my domain and pass silent judgment upon all I saw. The humans, in their bumbling quest for amusement, had accidentally built me the ultimate observation deck. The Jumpzylla, I decided, was not a blight after all. It was an essential piece of strategic infrastructure, and therefore, it was acceptable.