A photo of Pete the cat

Pete's Toy Box: Art Asylum

Star Trek Classic 6" Commander Spock Action Figure - Art Asylum

By: Star Trek

Pete's Expert Summary

My staff has presented me with what appears to be a miniature, plastic effigy of a creature with offensively pointy ears. This "Commander Spock" from "Art Asylum" (a rather dramatic name for a plastic factory) is, by my estimation, a glorified shelf-sitter. It possesses no inherent kinetic properties, no enticing scent, and no features designed to engage a superior intellect such as my own. It seems to exist merely to be looked at, a task I have already perfected. Its only potential lies in its ‘knock-over-ability’ and the small, loose components it seems to possess, which might be suitable for batting under the heaviest piece of furniture. A low-effort offering, to be sure.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The human placed the blue-clad figurine on the rug with an air of reverence I typically reserve for myself. It stood there, unnervingly still, its plastic eyes fixed on some middle distance, completely ignoring my magnificent presence. An insult. I approached with caution, my gray tail giving a single, irritated flick. It smelled of packing material and silent judgment. This was not a toy; this was an interloper, a silent sentinel placed in my domain to observe my napping schedule and report back to management. He came with accessories, little bits of plastic the human fumbled with before setting them beside him. A small black box with a silver circle and a peculiar handheld device. My eyes narrowed. Were these offerings? Tribute to the true commander of this household? I extended a single, perfect white paw and tentatively tapped the smaller box. The figure remained impassive, his expression a flat line of logical disapproval. He offered no challenge, no playful resistance. He simply stood, a monument to inaction. This creature’s stoicism was its fatal flaw. It failed to comprehend the fundamental laws of this universe: anything smaller than my head and lighter than a food bowl is subject to the irresistible force of my paw. I gave the figure a solid nudge at its shiny black boots. It wobbled, a brief, undignified dance, before tipping over with a hollow clatter. Its arm popped off in the process, a delightful bonus. It lay there, dismembered and defeated, its logic no match for my chaos. The human made a sound of protest, but I had already claimed my spoils. The detached arm was perfect for hooking and flinging. The small black box slid beautifully across the hardwood, destined for a new life under the refrigerator. This "Spock" was not a playmate, but a puzzle to be disassembled. He was not worthy of my attention as an equal, but he provided a satisfactory, albeit brief, deconstruction project. Verdict: A failure as a figure, but a moderate success as a source of small, easily losable parts. He has been logged.
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Star Trek Enterprise Doctor Phlox (r) away team EVA suit action figure

By: Unknown Brand

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in a fit of what can only be described as questionable judgment, has procured a small, rigid effigy of a two-legger encased in a shiny, unyielding shell. This "action figure," a term I find deeply ironic given its profoundly static nature, is apparently a representation of a "Doctor Phlox" from some space-faring narrative they enjoy. The brand is listed as an "unknown entity," which is the only intriguing thing about it. From my vantage point, it lacks all the essential qualities of a proper diversion: no feathers for shredding, no tantalizing scent of catnip, no satisfying crinkle upon capture. Its smooth, hard surfaces offer no purchase for my claws, and its stiff limbs promise a deeply unsatisfying "kill." Its only conceivable purpose seems to be occupying valuable shelf space that could otherwise be used for my afternoon sunbaths.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The object arrived in a transparent prison, a plastic sarcophagus from which it stared out with a placid, unnerving grin. My human called it "Phlox" and, after a brief, clumsy struggle with its containment field, placed it on the mantelpiece. It stood there, a silver and white sentinel, surveying my kingdom. That first night, I decided to conduct a thorough investigation. Leaping silently onto the shelf, I approached the intruder. It smelled of nothing but dust and the faint, sterile scent of its own plastic body. There was no life here, no hint of prey. I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped its helmet. The sound was a dull, hollow *tock*. The figure wobbled precariously but did not fall. It simply stood, its painted-on eyes looking forward, completely ignoring my challenge. This was an insult of the highest order. A proper toy would skitter away, or jingle, or at the very least, yield to my superior strength. This thing… it just *was*. It was an affront to the very concept of play, a monument to inaction. I circled it, my tail twitching in irritation. Its limbs were jointed, I noted, but held a stiff, unnatural pose. It was a mockery of a living being. My initial disdain, however, began to curdle into a different kind of curiosity. This wasn't a toy. It was a test. The human had placed this silent, unblinking observer here to judge me. Was I still the apex predator of this domain? Was my power absolute? I considered knocking it to the floor, a simple act of gravitational dominance that would surely end this charade. But that felt too crude, too simple for an intellect such as mine. A lesser cat would resort to brute force. So, I left it. I returned to my velvet cushion and feigned sleep, watching the silver figure through slitted eyes as it caught the moonlight. Let it stand its silent watch. I would not give it the satisfaction of a reaction. Its purpose, I decided, was to be ignored. My final verdict is this: as a toy, it is a catastrophic failure, an object of profound boredom. But as a testament to my own self-control and sophisticated indifference? It is, in its own pathetic way, a triumph. It will remain on the mantelpiece, not as a plaything, but as a reminder to my human of the vast, unbridgeable chasm between their clumsy amusements and my refined sensibilities.
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Star Trek Away Team "Nausicaan" Captain Enterprise Figure by Art Asylum

By: Star Trek

Pete's Expert Summary

So, my human has presented me with this... object. It appears to be a small, rigid statue of a particularly grumpy-looking biped, a species I've seen them stare at on the glowing square. They call it a "Nausicaan," which sounds like a condition requiring a visit to the Vet. Given that it's from a brand called "Star Trek" and made by something called an "Asylum," I can deduce this is not a toy for a sophisticated feline such as myself. It's a hard plastic dust-collector, designed to stand perfectly still on a shelf. Its only potential for amusement lies in the satisfying clatter it might make when swatted from a great height onto the hardwood floor, a service I am, for a price, willing to provide. Otherwise, it's a complete waste of my exquisitely soft fur.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The new thing arrived in a transparent prison, staring out with dull, painted eyes. The human cooed over it, using that ridiculous high-pitched voice usually reserved for praising my majestic tail. "Look, Pete! A Nausicaan! Isn't he cool?" The creature was eventually liberated and placed on the rug in my sunbeam. *My* sunbeam. It stood there, an ugly, lumpy-headed intruder in a garish vest, holding a tiny, equally plastic weapon. It was an affront. A silent declaration of war on my sovereign territory. I approached with the practiced stealth of a seasoned hunter, my gray form a mere shadow on the floor. I circled the invader, my nose twitching. It smelled of industry and disappointment. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave its leg a delicate *ping*. The resulting sound was a hollow, unsatisfying *tink*. There was no give, no life, no frightened squeak. This was not prey; this was an insult to the very concept of the chase. I flattened my ears. Was this a test? A challenge from the humans to see if I had lost my edge? I decided a diplomatic solution was required. I laid down, rolled onto my back, and exposed the pristine white expanse of my tuxedoed belly—the universal sign of "You are not a threat, and now you must rub this." The plastic dolt did nothing. It just stood there, its permanent scowl mocking my gesture of peace. The negotiations had failed. With a flick of my wrist, I hooked a paw around its ankles and sent it skittering across the floor, its useless little weapon flying in a separate, pathetic arc. Having dispatched the trespasser into the dark abyss beneath the armchair, I stood up, shook out my fur, and stared pointedly at the human. The message was clear: this embassy is closed. This Nausicaan was not a toy. It was not even a worthy adversary. It was, at best, a temporary and unfulfilling floor hockey puck. Now, if you'll excuse me, the sunbeam has been reclaimed, and my nap is grievously overdue.
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Star Trek 7" Enterprise Figure Without Base Series 2: T' Pol

By: Star Trek

Pete's Expert Summary

My Human seems to be confused about the definition of "toy." This is clearly a small, rigid plastic effigy of some pointy-eared woman from one of those space shows they watch. Its primary function appears to be standing perfectly still, and the packaging notes it lacks a base, which means its secondary function is to fall over with minimal provocation. While the brief clatter of its impact on the hardwood floor might provide a fleeting moment of satisfaction, its complete lack of crinkle, feathers, or erratic movement makes it fundamentally uninteresting. It's an object destined for a high shelf, a monument to the Human's poor judgment and a waste of my valuable observational energy.

Key Features

  • Contact Seller

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The Human, with a reverence I usually reserve for the opening of a fresh can of salmon, placed the strange, silent figure on the mantelpiece. It stood there, a blue-clad sentinel of stillness, staring into the middle distance with an expression of profound indifference that I had to respect. I watched it from the arm of the sofa, giving it my best slow blink of disinterest. It was too small to be a threat, too hard to be a pillow, and too quiet to be of any real consequence. It was, I concluded, a new and particularly boring form of sculpture. Days passed. The statue, which the Human called "T'Pol," did nothing. Then, one afternoon, as I was meditating on the cosmic injustice of a closed treat cupboard, a large truck rumbled past the house. The floorboards vibrated with a low hum, a frequency I knew well. The vibration traveled up the wall, through the mantel, and into the statue. With a slow, almost deliberate lean, it tipped forward and fell face-first onto the wooden shelf with a sharp *clack*. Exactly one second later, the Human walked into the room and, seeing me, announced it was time for dinner. A coincidence, I thought. But I was watching. The next day, as I stalked a dust bunny near the fireplace, a gust of wind from an open window caused the figure to pitch sideways, landing on its shoulder. Moments later, the red dot—the elusive, infuriating prey—appeared on the living room rug, sent by the Human in the other room. The pattern was undeniable. This was no mere statue. It was an oracle. Its falls were not accidents; they were pronouncements. A face-plant foretold food. A sideways topple summoned the dot. I began to watch it with rapt attention, my naps now strategic vigils awaiting the next prophecy from my silent, plastic shaman. Is it a toy? You insult me with the question. A toy is a simple distraction, an object to be batted and chewed. This… this is a mystical conduit, a direct line to the forces that govern this household. Its value is not in its playability, but in its predictive power. I am no longer merely a cat; I am the High Interpreter of the Fallen Vulcan. The Human thinks it's a collectible, a piece of memorabilia. They have no idea they have installed a new god in their home, and that I am its sole, furry prophet. It is, without a doubt, the most significant object to ever enter this house.
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Rock and Roll Alice Cooper Minimates Constrictor

By: Art Asylum

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with what appears to be a tiny, angular totem from a strange cult. The box says 'Art Asylum,' which I assume is where they imprison objects that fail to be interesting. This 'Alice Cooper' figure is a rigid, plastic effigy of a rather theatrical human holding a very sad, blocky snake. It possesses no articulation, no enticing scent, no jingle, and no redeeming interactive qualities whatsoever. Its sole purpose, as far as I can discern, is to occupy a flat surface, gathering dust until I decide its true destiny is to be batted under the heaviest piece of in the house. A profound waste of polymer.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The small idol was placed on the end table, a new and unwelcome sentinel in my domain. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail twitching in quiet appraisal. The human called it “Alice Cooper,” a name that sounded like a sneeze followed by a command. This was no toy. This was an effigy. The tiny man, with his dark eyes and stiff posture, was clearly a shaman. The snake coiled around his arm was not a pet, but a familiar, a conduit of power. They had been brought here for a reason, and I suspected it had something to do with the recent reduction in my salmon pâté rations. I waited until the moon was high and the house was steeped in silence. A graceful leap, a noiseless landing, and I was face-to-face with the plastic shaman. I circled him slowly, sniffing the air for traces of magic. There was only the faint, sterile scent of a factory. I lowered my head, my whiskers brushing against the blocky snake. It offered no hiss, no flicker of a tongue. I nudged the shaman’s foot with my nose. He didn't budge. This was a very stoic wizard, or a very cheap one. My initial theory of a powerful curse began to crumble. This was not a vessel of dark energy; it was a lump. My cynicism solidified into a verdict. This was not a magical adversary sent to enforce dietary restrictions. It was merely an insult to my intelligence. An object whose only purpose was to be looked at is an object that has fundamentally failed at its job. With a flick of my paw, I sent the shaman and his reptilian accessory skittering across the polished wood. The sound was a dull, unsatisfying clatter. It was a hollow victory. I gave it one more purposeful shove, watching as it tumbled off the edge of the table and disappeared into the deep shag of the rug below, lost to the world. Let the dust bunnies have him. He might be a king in their silent, lint-filled kingdom, but in my world, he was nothing. I cleansed my paw of the memory and retired to my human’s pillow, the rightful throne from which I would judge all future, and hopefully more interesting, offerings.
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Art Asylum Star Trek The Original Series Action Figure Wave 2 Mirror Kirk with Starfleet Gear

By: Diamond Select Toys

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in their infinite and baffling wisdom, has presented me with what appears to be a small, rigid statue of a particularly menacing human. They call him 'Mirror Kirk,' a name that means nothing to me, though his facial hair does project a certain villainous flair. It comes from a brand that apparently makes high-quality dust collectors for adult humans. While the tiny, detachable 'gear' might offer a fleeting moment of amusement for batting under the heaviest piece of furniture, the main figure itself is inert, scentless, and utterly devoid of anything that would engage a feline of my caliber. It seems destined to stare judgmentally from a shelf, a function I have already perfected.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The object was presented with the reverence usually reserved for a fresh tin of tuna. My human carefully liberated the small man from his transparent prison, setting him on the coffee table. He was an affront to good taste—a gaudy gold sash, a look of grim determination, and a tiny, shiny dagger tucked into his belt. I gave him a cursory sniff. He smelled of plastic and regret. I yawned, showing him the full magnificence of my fangs to establish dominance, and turned away. A statue was a statue. It could not provide sport, nor could it operate a can opener. It was useless. My human placed the figure on the mantelpiece, a new king on a ceramic throne. And it stared. From across the room, its painted eyes seemed to follow me as I performed my essential patrol from the sofa to the food bowl and back again. There was no warmth, no invitation to play—only the cold, calculating gaze of an interloper. My human would coo at it, adjusting its tiny dagger. A weapon! This wasn't a toy; it was an effigy of a threat, a silent challenger for the prime sunbeam spot and, perhaps, for the affection of my staff. The insolence was breathtaking. That night, under the cloak of a moonbeam, I made my move. A silent leap, a soft landing on the mantel. We were face to face, equals in our silent judgment of the world. Its painted sneer was unchanging, a testament to its hollow arrogance. I didn't pounce. I didn't nibble. I simply extended a single, perfect gray paw with my claws sheathed—I am a gentleman, after all—and *flicked* it squarely in its smug face. The usurper tumbled, landing with a pathetic clatter on the rug below. Its tiny weapons scattered like seeds. The main figure was a bore, a defeated monument to human folly. But the dagger... ah, the dagger. It slid beautifully across the hardwood floor. It was the perfect size to be captured, tormented, and ultimately lost under the refrigerator, a mystery for the ages. The 'Kirk' figure is worthless, but his trinkets have earned a temporary stay of execution. He may be gone, but his little plastic knife will be my trophy.
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Star Trek 7 inch Borg Assimilation Figure - Cardassian

By: Art Asylum

Pete's Expert Summary

So, the Human has procured another plastic totem from one of its glowing-box-dramas, this one a particularly dour-looking specimen. It's from a brand called "Art Asylum," which sounds less like a purveyor of fine amusements and more like a high-security facility for misbehaving artists. This "Borg Assimilation Cardassian" is essentially a seven-inch statue of a creature having a very bad day, covered in tubes and mechanical bits. For the Human, it is clearly meant to stand on a shelf and gather dust, a testament to a life spent staring at screens. For me, its appeal is less abstract. Its height is perfect for a satisfying gravitational experiment off the edge of a bookshelf, and those little tubes look just flexible enough to be interesting to a well-aimed claw. It lacks the essential crinkle or catnip sachet, but its potential for making a loud, skittering noise across the hardwood floor is, I must admit, intriguing.

Key Features

  • 7" Star Trek Borg Assimilation Cardassian Action Figure

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The artifact arrived cloaked in a transparent prison, its silent, grim face staring out at my domain. The Human called it a "Cardassian," but I knew better. The air around it was thick with the sterile scent of aged plastic and the cold, metallic tang of... ambition. This was no mere trinket. The Human placed it on the mantelpiece, a post of high honor, and I watched from the relative safety of the sofa cushions, my tail twitching a slow, rhythmic warning. This was an effigy, a sentinel placed by an unknown power. Its single, glowing red eye seemed to follow my every move, a silent challenge. The name the Human had uttered—"Borg"—echoed in my mind. A collective. An invader. This was a scout. For a full day, I conducted reconnaissance. I observed its unyielding posture, the way the afternoon sun glinted off its cybernetic implants. It did not move. It did not blink. It did not respond to my low, interrogative growls. The Human would occasionally glance at it with a strange fondness, a clear sign that the assimilation of my primary food-source had already begun on a psychological level. This could not stand. The integrity of the household—and the timely delivery of my evening wet food—was at stake. Action was required. That night, under the pale glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, I launched my assault. A silent leap from the floor to the armchair, a soft landing on the backrest, and a final, tense spring onto the mantel. I was now face-to-monocle with the enemy. It was heavier than I anticipated, its plastic form cold and unyielding beneath my paw. I gave it a tentative pat. Nothing. I escalated, hooking a claw into one of the many tubes snaking across its torso. I pulled. The figure wobbled, its balance precarious. This was the moment. With a guttural hiss that was all warrior, I gave it a firm shove with my head. It fell. The descent was swift, ending with a glorious, resounding *CLACK* on the hardwood floor below. It skittered to a halt near the fireplace, lying prone and defeated. I peered down from my perch, the victor. The red eye was now staring blankly at the ceiling. The threat was neutralized. I decided then that the artifact could stay. Not as an honored guest, but as a trophy. A reminder that this territory is protected by a guardian far more sophisticated than any plastic soldier. It's an excellent sparring partner for a bored Tuesday, but its true value is in its satisfying defeat.
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Star Trek Minimates: Khan

By: Star Trek

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in a fit of what I can only describe as misplaced nostalgia, has acquired a small, rigid figurine of a rather theatrical-looking human named 'Khan.' This… *thing* is essentially a chew-resistant, non-aerodynamic bit of plastic. From what I can gather, it's meant to be stared at, which is a frankly pathetic use of vertical space. For me, its appeal is purely gravitational; the true entertainment would lie in the percussive sound it makes upon meeting the floor from a great height. However, as it lacks any inherent motion, scent, or crinkle, I suspect it will prove to be a profound waste of the energy required to lift a single paw against it.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

It appeared without warning, a silent challenger placed upon the forbidden territory of the mantelpiece. From my observation post on the velvet armchair, I analyzed the intruder. It was small, yet its posture was one of unbridled arrogance. Its tiny, painted-on eyes stared out into my living room, my kingdom, with a look of supreme confidence that I found personally offensive. My human called it "Khan" and seemed pleased, which only deepened my suspicion. This was no mere bauble; this was a test. A static, plastic sentinel daring me to challenge its claim to the high ground. For a full day, I waged a war of silent observation. I circled the mantelpiece from below, my gaze locked on the tiny tyrant. It did not move. It did not blink. It simply stood there, its bare chest and flamboyant belt a monument to poor taste. A lesser feline would have simply swatted it down, an act of brute, unsophisticated force. But I am Pete. My methods are more refined. This was not a matter of play, but of politics. I needed to send a message, not just to the intruder, but to the human who placed it there. The moment came at dusk, when the shadows grew long and my gray fur rendered me a phantom. With a single, effortless leap, I was on the mantelpiece, my paws making no sound on the cool marble. I approached the figure not with aggression, but with a casual, almost bored demeanor. I gave it a long, slow blink, the ultimate expression of feline dominance. Then, as if idly grooming, I swung my magnificent, fluffy tail. It was not a swat, but a deliberate, calculated sweep. The plastic "Khan" was caught in the soft, gray tide and tipped over the edge without ceremony. It did not scream. It simply fell, tumbling end over end before landing with a pathetic, hollow *clatter* on the hardwood floor below. It came to rest half-hidden in the shadow of the bookshelf, defeated and forgotten. I sat, perfectly composed, and began to clean a forepaw, the picture of innocence. The toy was not a toy. It was an opportunity. An opportunity to remind everyone in this house of the true and rightful ruler of all high places. In that, for one brief, glorious moment, it was a worthy prop in my drama. Now, it is merely dust-bound refuse.
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Star Trek 7" Enterprise Figure Without Base: Klang-Klirgon

By: Star Trek

Pete's Expert Summary

My human seems to believe that any object branded "Star Trek" will automatically hold my interest, a flawed assumption based on my appreciation for watching the little lights blink on their viewing screen. This "Klang-Klirgon," as they ineptly call it, is a seven-inch plastic effigy of a rather grumpy-looking biped with a furrowed brow. It possesses no articulation, no enticing scent, no feathers, and certainly no motor functions. It's designed to do one thing: stand there. For a creature of my refined tastes, its primary value would be as a target for a precision gravity-based experiment conducted from the edge of the mantelpiece. Otherwise, it's a colossal waste of shelf space that could be better occupied by, well, me.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The ceremony of introduction was, as usual, undignified. The human held the stiff, plastic figure aloft, babbling about "honor" and "warriors" while making whooshing sounds. I observed from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation. The scent that wafted from the object was not of prey or of catnip, but of a long-dead factory and cardboard. They placed the silent sentinel on the rug before me, its painted-on scowl fixed on something far beyond the confines of this living room. I approached with the caution befitting a potential threat, even one so clearly inanimate. A sniff confirmed my suspicions: no soul, no life, just the cold, sterile aroma of manufactured plastic. For a day, it stood motionless near the leg of the coffee table. An intruder. A silent, unblinking challenger to my sovereignty. I watched it during my patrols. The sunbeam that warms the floor in the afternoon? It stood, unmoving, as the light crept across its chest. The distant roar of the trash receptacle collection vehicle? Not so much as a tremor. My human, in a display of profound ignorance, picked it up and tried to wiggle it in front of my face. I gave them a look of such withering contempt that they immediately ceased their foolishness. This was not a toy to be played with; this was an adversary to be understood. The breakthrough came not through violence, but through observation. I realized this creature’s strength was not in movement, but in its absolute stillness. It was a statue, a monument to something. To what, I didn't care. That night, under the soft glow of the hallway night-light, I approached it again. I did not bat it. I did not pounce. I simply sat beside it, a silent ruler next to his new, inexplicably ridged-headed sentry. We stared together into the darkness, two guardians of the quiet domain. It was useless as a plaything, an utter failure in that regard. But as a stoic, non-responsive companion for my late-night philosophical ponderings? Acceptable. It may remain. For now.
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