The annual challenge of buying gifts for pets is an experience that often comes with a shockingly high return rate due to feline rejection.
Anyone who shops for cats knows the risk; you can spend time researching and choosing something marketed as irresistible, only for your cat to look at it like you’ve deeply offended them.
I like to think of it as enrichment roulette. Sometimes you win, and sometimes you’re standing in line at the store in January, returning something your cat refused to acknowledge.
Every year, I make it my personal mission to enrich the lives of my animals. I buy gifts that promise physical fitness, mental stimulation, and — if we’re being honest — entertainment for me.
This year’s grand gesture? An exercise wheel for Lana and Lucy, my two feline roommates who already believe they own the house, the furniture, and my soul.
As with any foreign object introduced into their kingdom, the wheel’s arrival on Christmas Day was met with suspicion. Lana and Lucy sat several feet away, eyes wide, silently judging my life choices as I unpacked and assembled the giant contraption.
You would think I was building a portal to another dimension. Every screw tightened was met with narrowed eyes and a clear sense that this might be a trap.
Once assembly was complete, the verdict was swift and unanimous. The wheel itself was deeply concerning. However, the cardboard box it arrived in? A five-star gift!
Both cats launched themselves into the box, inspected every flap, chewed the corners, and generally confirmed that yes—this was, in fact, the best present they had ever received!
The wheel sat untouched, looming in the background like a modern art installation no one asked for.
After the box had been thoroughly conquered, curiosity about the strange new object finally arrived. I attempted diplomacy by sprinkling treats on and around the wheel. This resulted in both cats hovering at a safe distance, stretching their necks as far as possible to grab snacks without committing to full engagement.
After several minutes of this delicate negotiation, Lucy—my brave explorer — took the leap. She hopped onto the wheel, not to run, but to sit. Because obviously, the wheel was a scratching mat. She happily munched treats while seated proudly, as if she had discovered fire.
Encouraged by this progress, I continued tossing treats on and around the wheel well into Boxing Day. Lucy became increasingly comfortable, while Lana observed from afar with the intensity of someone watching a questionable reality TV show. Interested, but not enough to participate.
The following day, I discovered Lucy napping on her “scratching mat,” and decided it was time to up the stakes. Enter the feather wand. As Lucy swatted and pounced, the wheel began to move. At first, she froze—confused.
Then it clicked. She wasn’t on a moving object. She was the one making it move. Her eyes widened. The gears turned (mentally and physically). Lana watched closely, clearly filing this information away for future use.
By the next day, Lucy was fully embracing her new toy spinning away like she’d been training for this her whole life. Lana, meanwhile, remains in the observation phase—curious, cautious, and clearly waiting to see if Lucy survives long-term.
So, while I may have bought one exercise wheel for two cats, what I really purchased was a front-row seat to curiosity, bravery, and the slow realization that sometimes the scariest new things turn out to be pretty fun.
And, if nothing else, the box was a hit.