My human, in their infinite yet questionable wisdom, has presented me with a miniature two-wheeled chariot they call a "Kawasaki KX 450F" from a company named NewRay. It's a rather detailed diecast metal replica, which gives it a satisfying heft, unlike those flimsy plastic things they usually try to pass off as toys. The lurid green color is a bit much for my refined tastes, and it’s obviously intended to sit on a human’s desk. However, the fact that its wheels actually spin presents a possibility. It might offer a decent, high-speed skitter across the hardwood floor if batted with sufficient force, but I suspect its delicate parts are no match for a determined paw. It walks a fine line between a thrilling chase object and a disappointing piece of shelf clutter.
The object landed on the rug with a soft thud, an alien intrusion of green and black plastic and metal into my otherwise perfect gray-and-white world. The human stared at me with that familiar, expectant look. I offered a slow, deliberate blink in return, a gesture that can mean anything from “I adore you” to “I am plotting to unravel that entire roll of paper towels,” and let them wonder which it was. This was, I deduced, some sort of terrestrial speeder, a primitive ground vehicle for a species that hadn’t yet mastered the art of silent, four-legged travel. I yawned, displaying a complete lack of interest that I did not entirely feel.
After a suitable period of disdain, I rose and stretched, a fluid motion that rippled through my tuxedo-clad form, and sauntered over for a closer inspection. It was a scout ship, clearly. I nudged it with my nose. The front wheel pivoted. A rudimentary steering mechanism. Interesting. The human, encouraged, gave it a little push. The vehicle rolled a few inches and then tipped over, its mission a pathetic failure. I sighed. If you want a job done right, you must do it yourself. This vessel was not meant for the clumsy hands of giants. It was a one-cat recon drone.
I waited until the dead of night, when the house was mine and the only light was the cool blue glow of the tiny electronic eyes on the various appliances. I found the scout ship lying on its side, abandoned. This time, I would be its pilot, its navigator, its prime mover. I crouched, my tail lashing like a coiled whip, and unleashed a perfectly calibrated batting strike to its rear wheel. The little machine shot off the rug and onto the slick, dark hardwood of the hallway. It didn't just slide; it *rolled*, its wheels spinning in a furious, near-silent blur. It was a ghost, a green phantom streaking through the shadows of my domain.
The ship traveled the entire length of the hall, a breathtaking fifteen feet, before its journey ended with a muted *clink* against the baseboard. Silence returned. I stalked toward it, my paws making no sound. I was no longer Pete, the pampered house cat. I was the silent commander of a clandestine operation, and this was my advance vessel. I nudged it upright with my head, its cool metal a satisfying feeling. The human thought they bought a toy. What they had actually done was deliver the key to my nightly espionage. This little green ship and I had many miles to cover before sunrise. It was, I decided, a most excellent acquisition.
