Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired another plastic effigy, this one apparently based on a character from that loud animated program they watch on the glowing screen. The manufacturer, Diamond Select Toys, seems to specialize in these static, posable dolls for overgrown kittens. From my perspective, the primary appeal is not the 7-inch figure itself, which seems destined for a life of collecting dust on a high shelf, but its accessories. The promise of an "alternate unmasked head" and "energy-charged hands" translates directly to "small, lightweight objects perfect for batting under the heaviest piece of furniture." While the main statue might serve as a decent scratching post in a moment of dire need, its true value lies in the tiny, lose-able pieces that my staff will foolishly leave within my reach.
Key Features
- Based on the hit Prime Video animated series
- Rex has alternate unmasked head and energy-charged hands
- Figures measure 7"-8" tall
- 14 points or more of articulation
- Full-color window box packaging
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with the usual fanfare—the human made cooing noises and carefully sliced the tape with a silver letter opener. I watched from my post atop the armchair, feigning disinterest. Another two-legged plastic man to stand sentinel over the bookshelf. This one, however, was different. The human, my so-called provider, removed him and began… assembling him. He twisted the doll's arms and legs, then popped off its head and replaced it with another, smaller one. My tail gave a single, involuntary twitch. This wasn't a statue. This was a puzzle. Once the human was satisfied with his grotesque creation, he placed it on the mantelpiece and left the room, presumably to fetch my dinner (he was running three minutes behind schedule). More importantly, he left the discarded parts on the coffee table: the original helmeted head and a pair of translucent blue hands, crackling with sculpted, impotent energy. I leaped down, my paws silent on the rug. The main figure on the mantel was the distraction, the decoy. The real prize lay scattered below. I approached the coffee table not as a cat, but as a bomb disposal expert. The blue hands were clearly the volatile components. I gave one a tentative pat. It skittered across the polished wood, a flash of sapphire lightning, before coming to rest near the edge. A perfect trajectory. I batted it again, harder this time. It flew from the table and disappeared under the antique credenza, a place no human hand could easily reach. A wave of deep, primal satisfaction washed over me. One device disarmed and secured. I then turned my attention to the helmeted head. It stared up at the ceiling with empty, painted eyes. It felt solid, a good weight. I nudged it, rolled it, and finally, with a deft flick of my paw, sent it spinning like a top. It was a most satisfying game, a test of physics and finesse. The large figure on the mantel could stay; he was a monument to my triumph. But his dismembered parts? They were my trophies. This "Rex Splode" was utterly useless as a whole, but brilliant in pieces. A truly successful deconstruction.
