Tuxedo Tribute in Gray Clay Passes Quality Inspection

I was enjoying a particularly profound nap on the dining room table—a forbidden throne that offered the best view of my domain—when the human began a ritual of profound pointlessness. The crisp crinkle of foil packets, a sound I typically associate with treats, drew one of my eyes open. She was extracting vibrant, pillowy logs of color from their silver wrappers: a garish red, a shocking yellow, a blue as deep as a midnight sky. She kneaded them with her clumsy thumbs, her face a mask of concentration. I yawned, unimpressed. It was just another one of her nonsensical "crafts." Then, my disinterest curdled into focused curiosity. She took a portion of the gray material—a respectable, dignified color, I’ll admit—and began to shape it. A lumpen body. Two triangular points for ears. A small dab of pristine white was applied to the chest and paws, forming a familiar tuxedo pattern. My tail, which had been lying dormant, gave a single, sharp twitch. This was no random creation. This was an idol. An effigy. An attempt to capture my magnificent form in a primitive, squishy medium. I rose, stretched with deliberate elegance, and padded silently across the polished wood. I stopped a whisker’s length from the miniature me. The human held her breath. I leaned in, sniffing. It had a faint, clean scent, not of food, but of something new and neutral. I extended a single, perfect claw and gently poked the figure’s flank. The material yielded with a delightful, spongy resistance, leaving a tiny indentation before slowly puffing back out. No crumbles. No sticky residue on my pristine claw. This was quality material for a tribute, I had to concede. Satisfied with the material's worthiness, I gave the tiny gray statue a gentle but firm shove with my nose, sending it skidding across the table. It tumbled end over end, a silent, soft acrobat, before coming to a rest near the edge. The human laughed, interpreting my act of divine judgment as "play." So be it. I allowed her this small delusion. I had tested the offering and found it acceptable. It was soft, pliable, and moved when prodded. For now, it was a worthy plaything. I would enjoy its softness while it lasted, before the air, as its name promised, rendered it a hard, unmoving monument to my glory. All things, it seems, eventually become static relics.