A bag, in a box.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many toys we buy our cats, because each and every one ends up, minutes after their unveiling, in some small, dusty corner under my dresser, vanished until the next time Mitch and I decide to actually – ahem – clean under and behind our furniture.
In the meantime, the cats make toys out of bottle caps, toilet paper rolls, baked goods, their own reflection and – my favorite – my hair. The only thing to trump these makeshift toys is that king of makeshift toy-dom, The Box.
They can turn a good box of any size into a shelter, a hideout, a battle zone, but most often one or the other will hop inside the box and just sit there, looking for all the world as though the box is their brand new palace and all the living room outside, the kingdom over which they’ve been called to rule kindly and justly.
The only thing to top that is when I come home, as I did yesterday, with bags of groceries stashed inside a good-sized box. By the time I get the groceries put away, they’ve already got two paws each inside the box, and by the time I relinquish the box to them completely, to do with as they will, one or the other cat has hopped inside a bag while the other bats viciously at their head from outside.
When that novelty wears off, they just sit there, happy as clams, up to their ears in cardboard.