Miso's Rainy-Day Box

I am Miso, a gray cat with white paws and a tail that curls like a question mark. From my low window ledge, I watch the street and form strong opinions. My biggest opinion is this: an empty box makes a better present than a shiny toy.

On my birthday, Maya carried three gifts into the living room. A plush fish, a feather wand, and a battery-powered mouse waited in bright paper. “The mouse will be your favorite,” Maya announced. She expected me to pounce.

I did inspect each toy. The fish was soft, but it did not move. The wand made a pleasant swish, but it belonged to Maya’s hand. The mouse zipped away, and I chased it once. Then I noticed a large box beside the table.

The box was empty, sturdy, and wide enough for me to turn around. Its flaps stood up like little walls. To Maya, it was packaging waiting for the recycling bin. To me, it was a room, a lookout, and a quiet place to think.

I stepped inside. The cardboard floor gave a gentle crinkle under my paws. Then two flaps slipped down and covered the opening. The box became dark. I backed out because I wanted to watch the rain tapping the window. My favorite present had a problem.

Maya saw my disappointed face and lifted the flaps. “I see why you left,” she said. She asked Dad to cut two round windows in the sides. Then she placed a soft towel inside and set the box near my window.

I climbed in again. Through one window, I watched raindrops slide down the glass. Through the other, I saw the birthday guests. For her scrapbook, Maya took a photo of me. At the top, a heading read, “Miso’s Rainy-Day Box.” Under the photo, a caption said, “An empty box becomes a cozy lookout.”

Maya still liked the new toys, but she understood my choice. I liked the box because it gave me shelter, a view, and peace. A present does not need to sparkle to be special. From my ledge, I closed my eyes while rain tapped the roof.