A Tale from Pete the Cat

The box arrived with the usual fanfare. The human made cooing noises, which I initially interpreted as a long-overdue tribute to my magnificent presence on the windowsill. But the coos were directed at the cardboard prison she was carefully slicing open. From within, she extracted a creature of such psychedelic plumage it offended my monochromatic sensibilities. It was a riot of tie-dyed fur, topped with two enormous plastic ears and eyes that stared, unblinking, into the very soul of the room. It was an affront to good taste. I flattened my ears, narrowed my eyes, and judged it from my superior vantage point. It was, I concluded, a fuzzy harbinger of annoyance. Then, the human uttered the cursed incantation: "Hey Furby!" The creature shuddered to life. Its ears glowed a lurid pink, its plastic eyelids snapped open and shut with a disconcerting click, and it began to spew a stream of gibberish the box called "Furbish." It wiggled. It sang a song about friendship in a voice that could curdle milk. I remained perfectly still, a statue of gray and white disdain, observing this pathetic display. This was not a worthy adversary. This was not even a decent chew toy. It was an animated dust bunny with an ego, and I would not grant it the satisfaction of a reaction. My human, utterly captivated, began adorning the creature with the included baubles. A tiny comb, some plastic beads on a string, a little pizza charm. The Furby responded to this with more chirps and ear-wiggling. But my focus had shifted. My gaze locked onto the string of beads as the human clipped them to the creature's tuft of head-fur. My tail began a slow, deliberate twitch. The chattering monstrosity was merely a vessel. The true treasure was the collection of small, eminently "lose-able" trinkets it wore. My mission was no longer observation; it was acquisition. Later that evening, the human left the chattering idol on the rug and went to fetch herself some lesser, non-tuna-based sustenance. The Furby sat there, its eyes glowing softly in the dim light, occasionally murmuring something about dancing. This was my moment. I slunk from the armchair, a silent predator moving through the Serengeti of the living room. I ignored the creature itself, focusing solely on the prize. With the deft precision of a surgeon, I hooked a single claw under the string of beads, gave a sharp tug, and sent them skittering across the hardwood floor. The Furby let out a surprised "Whee-kah!" but I was already gone, disappearing into the shadows under the sofa with my prize. Let the fuzzy orb have the human's attention; I had secured the spoils of war. It was, I decided, a moderately successful invasion.