Pete's Expert Summary
My Human seems to have acquired another plastic totem for his shelf of strange, unblinking figures. This one, a "B9 Robot" from a brand called Diamond Select Toys, is a clunky, multi-colored humanoid effigy standing a full ten inches tall—a rather imposing height for a dust-collector. It's advertised with "lights and sounds," which could be either a fascinating new source of laser-like dots to chase or an utterly vulgar interruption of my afternoon meditations. It is, by design, not a toy for felines. It is meant to be looked at, not pounced upon. Its primary value to me seems to be the "Try Me" window box it arrived in, which offers both a superior napping receptacle and a tantalizing button for me to command this new, noisy butler at my leisure.
Key Features
- A Diamond Select Toys release
- DST's first electronic robot toy
- Robot stands 10" high
- Features lights and sounds taken straight from the classic sci-fi show
- Packaged in full-color, "Try Me" window box
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The monolith arrived on a Tuesday. It was a glossy cardboard rectangle with a transparent window, a prison displaying its captive. Inside, a strange, gray being with accordion limbs stood frozen. The Human called it a "collectible," a word I've come to associate with objects that are forbidden to be knocked off shelves. He placed the entire containment unit on the floor, and I began my formal inspection. As sovereign of this domain, it is my duty to assess all new arrivals for potential threats, nap-ability, and treat-dispensing functionality. This one offered a peculiar feature: a small circle on the box that said, "Try Me." A direct invitation. After the Human liberated the figure and placed it on the low media console, a tense silence filled the room. The robot stood motionless, its glass dome head reflecting my own sleek, tuxedo-clad form. It was an emissary from an unknown world, and I was the diplomat assigned to greet it. I leaped silently onto the console, my paws making no sound on the polished surface. I circled it once, my tail held low and steady. It did not react. It did not smell of mouse or bird. It smelled of plastic and, faintly, of the Human’s nostalgia. This was not a creature of my world. Remembering the invitation from its prison, I decided to initiate communication. I extended a single, perfect paw, claws carefully retracted, and pressed the small, almost invisible button on its torso. The effect was immediate and startling. The robot's chest cavity exploded in a flashing, strobing light show of red and yellow. A metallic, disembodied voice shrieked, "DANGER! DANGER! WILL ROBINSON!" My ears swiveled, my pupils dilated, but I did not flinch. This was not a threat; it was a report. This strange sentinel was warning me of the omnipresent dangers of this household—the terrifying roar of the vacuum monster, the sudden absence of the sun in my favorite napping spot, the existential horror of a food bowl that is merely half-full. I stared at the robot as its lights faded and it fell silent once more. I had misjudged it. It was not a toy to be batted or a rival to be hissed at. It was a watchman. A fellow guardian, albeit a stationary one, who understood the gravity of our situation. I gave it a slow blink, the highest honor one can bestow, signifying acceptance and understanding. It may be a useless plaything, but its periodic, frantic warnings would serve as a welcome, if dramatic, confirmation of my own worldview. It could stay.
