A Tale from Pete the Cat

The day of the great alignment began with an unbearable cacophony. My human, with the fumbling urgency of a newly born kitten, clicked and snapped together pieces of a long, black skeleton across the living room floor. From my vantage point atop the leather ottoman, I watched this bizarre ritual unfold. He was not building a toy; he was resurrecting the spine of some ancient, plastic serpent, laying its vertebrae out in a pattern of profane loops and curves. It was an offense to the room's feng shui, and I made my displeasure known with a sigh that ruffled the very edges of my pristine white bib. Once the serpent's form was complete, my human connected it to the wall, and a low, electric hum filled the air, a discordant note in the symphony of my afternoon nap. He then produced two miniature chariots, one a vulgar red and the other a deep blue, and placed them reverently upon the serpent's back. He and the smaller, louder human each took up a wired clicker, a device I could only assume was for channeling their meager psychic energies. At their command, the chariots sprang to life, not as toys, but as two frantic souls condemned to chase one another for eternity along a fixed, plastic path. They whizzed by, their tiny electric motors singing a high-pitched song of desperation. I watched, my initial disdain slowly melting into a predator's focus. My tail began its slow, metronomic sweep. The souls ascended the impossible, gravity-defying loop, their magnetic tethers holding them firm against the serpent's spine. They were trapped, yes, but they were fast—beautifully, gloriously fast. This was not a game; this was a prophecy in motion, and I was its witness. The prophecy reached its climax at the far curve, just past the overpass. The small human, in a fit of wild abandon, squeezed his controller too hard. The red soul, its speed overwhelming its magnetic bond, broke free from its fate. It became a shooting star, a fleeting crimson comet arcing through the air of my domain. It tumbled across the Persian rug, its frantic buzzing silenced, and came to rest, defeated, a mere foot from my paws. The serpent on the floor continued to hum, its remaining blue soul circling forlornly, but the ritual was over. A sacrifice had been made. I extended a single, perfect white paw and tapped the fallen chariot. It was light, hollow, and utterly mine. With a deft flick, I sent it skittering into the dark abyss beneath the sofa. The plastic serpent was a crude and noisy altar, but its offerings were, I decided, acceptable. Very acceptable indeed.