Afternoon sunlight spilled through the living room window, warming the floorboards and casting that perfect golden glow that says “time for a nap.” I had already selected my usual spot on the sofa, precisely positioned for optimal sunbeam coverage. Life was good again.
While bathing in the sunlight, I started thinking about the day I heroically saved my family. The day Ben came to adopt me. I could still remember every detail: the carrier door clicking shut, the panic, the daring escape, and how I ran back to my siblings to make my stand. A true moment of courage and leadership, if I do say so myself.
Technically, Ben adopted us but really, we adopted him. A noble rescue on our part. He’d been living a quiet, uneventful life before we arrived. Now he had purpose, chaos, and the unmatched privilege of serving three extraordinary kittens.
I was in the middle of a very important internal monologue, in fact, the opening lines of my future memoir “Mittens: The Untold Hero” when the door creaked open.
“Who’s ready for some fun?” Ben’s voice rang out, far too cheerfully for the hour.
I opened one eye slowly, unimpressed. Fun? I was having fun - deep, meaningful, sunbeam-based reflection fun. Did humans not understand the importance of peace and introspection?
I stretched dramatically and flicked my tail,
“Oh splendid,by all means, interrupt my philosophical brilliance with your noisy enthusiasm.”
Ben, naturally, did not take the hint. He marched in, arms full of jingling contraptions and feathers on sticks. I braced myself. Whatever was coming, it was bound to involve indignity.
He sat down and began enthusiastically waving a feather wand. My brother, bless his simple soul, immediately sprang to life. One dramatic pounce, two heroic rolls, and he was tangled in the string like a furry burrito. Ben clapped and cheered, which my brother seemed to take as permission to nap right where he was - toy still clutched to his belly. Six seconds. New record.
Ben sighed and turned to my sister.
Now, she’s what humans call “energetic.” I call it “reckless.” The moment Ben tossed a ball her way, she was off - a blur of fur and enthusiasm. She bounced from sofa to rug to windowsill, tail puffed like she’d just discovered electricity. Toys flew in all directions. She chased one mouse, then another, then somehow two at once.
At one point she accidentally smacked herself with a feather wand and decided that was even more fun.
Then, just when I thought her performance had peaked, she spotted her own tail. For reasons unknown she decided it was an enemy. The battle was immediate and vicious. She spun in dizzying circles, growling at herself, tail whipping faster and faster until she toppled over like a tiny furry tornado that ran out of energy.
I tilted my head, studying the scene with scientific interest.
Fascinating, I thought. Same upbringing, same diet, same mother… yet one of us clearly got all the sense. Between my sister’s chaotic enthusiasm, my brother’s talent for napping through earthquakes, and my own unmatched brilliance, it’s a wonder the three of us even share a species.
I watched.I had no intention of participating in this... circus. I am a cat of sophistication, after all.
But then Ben pulled out the crinkly thing.
Now, let me tell you something about that ball. It makes a sound that can only be described as “the call of destiny.” It crinkles, it crackles, it whispers, “come chase me, noble hunter.” I tried to resist. I really did. But my tail twitched on its own. My paw flexed without me even realizing.
Ben rolled it across the floor. It stopped right beside me. A coincidence, I’m sure.
I stared at it. Long. Hard. The kind of stare that could melt lesser prey. The crinkly ball did not move. Bold of it.
We locked eyes - or, well, I locked eyes. It just sat there pretending to be innocent. Classic psychological warfare. I crouched lower, whiskers trembling, tail swishing like a metronome of menace.
“Go on,” I thought. “Make your move, shiny one.”
It didn’t.
I waited another five seconds. Then another ten. Still nothing. The nerve.
“Fine,” I muttered. “You leave me no choice.”
I gave it a cautious tap. Purely investigative, of course. It rolled an inch, then stopped again as if mocking me. My paw twitched. Another tap. Then another, firmer this time. The crinkle echoed through the room like a challenge.
I darted left, then right, circling it like a professional. It rolled slightly. I pounced. It escaped, barely, spinning away across the floor. I followed, claws clicking, back arched, every muscle singing with purpose.
A twist. A leap. A midair spin (completely intentional). I landed perfectly, right on top of it… and missed. It shot out from under me like it had developed a survival instinct.
I skidded to a halt, fur fluffed, eyes wide. “Impressive, you’ve trained well.”
Ben laughed from the sofa, the sound of a man who didn’t appreciate the gravity of this duel. Nothing warms my heart quite like knowing my highly sophisticated hunting display is serving as his personal comedy show. Perhaps next time I’ll charge for a ticket.
The ball crinkled again - louder, bolder, mocking.
That was it. No more games. I launched myself across the room in a heroic blur, the very embodiment of feline grace (give or take a minor tail spin).
When I finally pinned it down beneath my paw, I leaned close and whispered, “Gotcha.”
It crinkled one last time in defeat.
I might have even… purred (that part will be denied if anyone ever asks).
Ben laughed. I’m glad he’s amused, truly. Nothing warms my heart quite like knowing my highly sophisticated hunting display is serving as his personal comedy show. Perhaps next time I’ll charge for a ticket.
My sister joined in, teaming up with me to chase the feather wand next. We made an excellent duo until she decided the toy was hers and whacked me on the nose. Rude.
So, naturally, I chased her instead. We zoomed through the hallway, across the rug, under the table, over the sleeping brother (he didn’t even flinch), and back again. It was chaos. It was glorious. It was undignified. It was… AWESOME.
At some point I paused, panting lightly (but still looking majestic, obviously). Ben reached down, grinning, and gave me a gentle chin scratch.
“I knew you’d play eventually,” he said.
I gave him my most serious stare, as if to say, “I’m only doing this to boost your morale.”
Satisfied that my reputation remained mostly intact, I sat back down neatly, tail curled, pretending I hadn’t just been doing backflips after a crinkly ball.
Ben went back to waving the feather for my sister who was still halfway between genius and disaster while my brother snored so loudly it sounded like distant thunder.
I glanced around at the chaos, the toys scattered like fallen soldiers, and thought to myself,
“Well, someone had to supervise. Might as well be me.”
Naturally, I stayed. For Ben’s sake. And maybe, just maybe, for one more crinkle.
I’ll admit it - and you didn’t hear this from me - playing is… not entirely awful. There’s something oddly satisfying about the chase, the pounce, the victory over the crinkly foe. Even if my sister treats every toy like it owes her money, and my brother contributes nothing except background snoring.
It’s messy, it’s ridiculous, it’s undignified, and yet… It's kind of wonderful.
Not that I’d ever say that out loud, of course. I have a reputation to maintain.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s not so bad to try new things, even if they look silly or sound boring at first. You never know… they might just turn out to be fun.