My human has found a new altar to serve, and this one talks back.
It stands in the cold bright store waving objects at a small glowing box, one at a time, listening for the little chirp of approval. When the box is pleased, it chirps. When it is displeased, it screams a flat scolding noise, and my human freezes, shoulders up, guilty as a cat caught on the counter, and waits for a tall bored human to walk over and forgive it.
I know this posture. This is the posture of a creature seeking permission from something that does not love it. I have watched my human beg this box to accept a bag of the crunchy brown pellets it fills my bowl with, and the box refused, twice, and made the scolding noise, and my human apologized. To the box.
There is no warm lap here. There is no soft place. There is only my human, standing very straight, being corrected by a rectangle, learning obedience it has never once shown me.
It comes home smelling of the cold store and that faint metal panic, and it sets down the crunchy pellets like a peace offering, like the box taught it something about giving.
I do not touch the pellets. I sit beside them and stare at my human until it understands its error, and then I turn and walk into the other room without a sound.
Let it wonder which of us is displeased tonight.