Over the years, my cats have amassed quite the collection of toys. Every week or so, I walk around the house and gather them into one of three (yes, three) toy boxes, just to avoid the destruction of yet another vacuum.

Many of these toys are your feline standard: crunchy balls, caged balls with bells in ’em, fake mice, things with feathers. Then there are the ordinary items our cats have turned into playthings, such as aluminum foil balls, wrapping paper and empty boxes. Our brood of six also has quite the collection of scratching posts, kitty condos, heated mats as well as their own room for food and litter boxes.

Which is to say, they’re utterly spoiled.

And yet, for dear Treacle, no toy compares to her woobie. She loves this toy more than any other. Oh, she’ll chase after a crinkle ball or catnip-scented sachet, but she won’t play with it. Once she realizes the toy we’ve thrown is not her woobie, she turns up her little black nose and walks away.

Toss her woobie across the room, however, and Treacle will run full tilt to retrieve it. She’ll pick it up with her mouth, run back to you and spit the toy at your feet. Then, she’ll begin to trill, demanding that you throw the toy again.

If you do so, and angle the toss about 3 feet off the ground, Treacle will leap into the air for it. Sometimes she’ll catch it with her paws; other times it’ll sail just beyond her reach and she’ll joyfully chase after it.

Often the speed at which Treacle runs to catch her woobie is so fast that she can’t stop in time (Newton’s First Law). She’ll slide across the wood floor, sailing right past the toy and thump fluffily against the wall. She doesn’t mind, though. She just picks herself up, grabs the toy, runs back and spits it out at your feet. With black liquid eyes, she’ll look up at you and beg for another toss. Should you fail to comply with her polite plea, she’ll shove the toy closer and start meowing.

The woobie occasionally escapes from Treacle’s grasp, sliding under a door and into a room that’s out of bounds (bathroom, basement, bedrooms). When this happens, she’ll return to you, sans toy, and insist that you retrieve it. Light forbid you have anything else to do, such as cook dinner or work. No, no. You must stop everything and GET HER WOOBIE. At which point, the toss-and-retrieval process begins again.

The woobie started out as a toy mouse but over time, it has transformed, Velveteen Rabbit-like, into a stuffed grey lump. Its ears are gone. So are its eyes and its nose. Tail? What tail? Lost that months ago. It’s even had abdominal surgery to stitch up wear and tear.

Occasionally, Treacle will take it upon herself to clean the woobie by dunking it in her water bowl. Once it’s thoroughly soaked, she’ll bring the disgusting, sopping toy over and demand that you play fetch. If you throw it, the “mouse” lands with a gross splat and leaves a tell-tale puddle on the floor. Since I have no wish to play with a wet toy or have dirty floors, I send the woobie to purgatory (i.e., over a heating vent inside a forbidden room to dry). Treacle remains noticeably unhappy until this process is completed.

M and I used to complain that our dog Duncan wouldn’t play fetch for more than a toss or two. Treacle has taken the game in the other direction and entreats everyone to play with her — right now.

Good thing she’s so adorable.