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A Tale from Pete the Cat

The prophecy had foretold its arrival, though I’d dismissed the omens as the usual Human foolishness. The whispers spoke of a Noisy Herald in a suit of blue, riding a Red Beast, his head moving with the tremors of the world. I, High Priest of the Sun-Puddle Temple, watched from my altar—the velvet ottoman—as the Human, a mere acolyte in my grand religion, placed the idol on the sacred floor. It was small, garish, and utterly still. A false god, I presumed, unworthy of even a dismissive tail flick. Then, the ritual began. The Human pushed the Red Beast forward, and a terrible grinding chant rose from within it, a sound like a thousand trapped cicadas. She released it, and the idol hurtled forward, its oversized head trembling as if receiving a chaotic divine vision. It was not graceful like the Red Dot of Ascension, nor was it subtle like the rustle of the treat bag. It was a crude, loud, and direct force, an invader in my sanctum. It careened past the leg of the coffee table, its wobbly head seeming to mock the quiet dignity of my domain. I descended from the altar, my gray form a shadow against the light. This was not a hunt; it was an exorcism. I let the Herald make another pass, studying its profane dance. The wobbling head was the key, the source of its unholy power. As it rumbled by, I extended a single, perfect paw, my claws sheathed out of a sense of profound pity. I didn't strike to kill, but to test. The connection was solid. The Herald's head snapped back, then forward, then back again in a violent, silent argument with itself. The momentum of my tap, combined with its own top-heavy construction, was its undoing. The Red Beast tipped, and the Herald clattered onto its side, silenced. My Human laughed and set it upright for another go. Fine. Let the rituals continue. The idol is a simpleton, its path predictable and its weakness obvious. While it offers none of the intellectual stimulation of, say, a moth trapped between window panes, there is a certain spiritual satisfaction in repeatedly smiting this noisy, wobbly-headed demigod and restoring tranquility to my temple. It is a crude form of worship, but one I am willing to entertain. For now.