It begins with a single, well-placed whine. A chirp, if you will. The sound of a cat who has been gravely neglected in the department of recreational stimulation. Felix, predictably, looks up from whatever mundane human activity he’s performing (typing, eating, existing) and sighs. He recognizes the ritual. “You want to play,” he states, as if he has any real agency in the matter.
Ah, but that’s where he’s wrong.
The moment the teaser toy appears, I take a sudden, dignified step back, ears tilted at the most intriguing angle of detached curiosity. Schmutz, seizing her cue, bounds forward in a flurry of crooked-tail excitement, batting at the toy with the fervor of a creature who had never known joy until this very moment.
Felix narrows his eyes. His suspicion grows. “Wait a second,” he mutters. “Did she—did you send her to ask for you?”
A ridiculous accusation. And yet.
One must admire Schmutz’s cunning, if only in its sheer laziness. She has learned that direct begging is unbecoming, undignified. Annoying, even. And so, she has outsourced the task to me—the more eloquent, the more insistent, the more strategic party. I summon the humans with my trademark persistence, an artfully executed campaign of well-timed chirps and floor-toy placements, all to create the necessary conditions for play. Once Felix has fallen into the trap and the teaser toy is in hand, I relinquish the stage.
What do I gain from this arrangement? Credibility. The air of a reasonable, measured cat—one who would never stoop to Schmutz’s level of chaotic demand. If I am known as the instigator but never the direct participant, I remain above suspicion. I retain my integrity.
Felix watches me, his brow furrowed. He knows he is being played, but the evidence remains circumstantial. Meanwhile, Schmutz flings herself across the floor, victorious.
The system endures.
