It all began with me pinging a giant rubber band, which Little M would fetch. When disintegrated, I ordered him a bumper pack of the things. I get sad, accusing eyes if he deems it's time for Ping, and "Pffft" noises if I don't comply.
Now the game of Ping has disintegrated into me pinging the bloody thing, Little M gleefully pouncing on it, tossing it about, pretending he can't find it, or placing it just out of reach, resulting in me fetching it for him. Rinse and repeat, otherwise he becomes a small, tantrumming bulldozer.
Then the constant worry he might swallow it, so a mad dash about the house, (usually just before bed-time) to find the Ping, and lock it away from his little monkey paws.
He is a dick. But also the light of my life. He's looking at me with accusing eyes because I just put it away.