Pete's Expert Summary
It appears The Staff has procured another plastic effigy, this one a slender female figure in a rather snug uniform. They mumble something about a "Sue Storm" and her "invisibility," a concept I perfected years ago whenever the vacuum cleaner appears. At seven inches tall, she's a respectable size for batting off her designated perch on the Forbidden Shelf. The promise of "16 points of articulation" is mildly intriguing; a posable adversary is far more sporting than a static one. However, the real prize is likely the "interchangeable parts." Small, detachable pieces are the caviar of floor-level prey, and I suspect these will provide a far more satisfying hunt than the doll herself ever could.
Key Features
- Stands approximately 7" tall
- 16 points of articulation
- Interchangeable parts and accessories
- Designed by Eamon O'Donoghue
- Sculpted by May Thamtarana
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Curator—my human—placed the new offering on the Great Shelf, a place usually reserved for hard-backed sleeping surfaces and objects too precious to be properly tested for their aerodynamic properties. The plastic woman stood there, frozen in a pose of what I assume was meant to be heroic readiness. I watched from my throne on the armchair, unimpressed. Another sentry for the dust bunnies. I gave a dismissive tail-flick and closed my eyes, feigning a nap. It was, I decided, a static bore. Hours later, in the deep quiet of the afternoon, I leaped silently onto the desk for a closer inspection. The figure stood between a heavy bookend shaped like a metal bird and a pot containing a long-suffering succulent. It was a terribly staged scene, lacking any dramatic tension. On a whim, I extended a single, careful claw and nudged her elbow. It bent. I nudged again. The entire arm swung forward. My ears perked. This was no mere statue. This was a puppet, and I was the puppet master. A new purpose ignited within me. I was no longer a mere critic; I was a director. Over the next hour, I orchestrated a silent, dramatic masterpiece. With delicate nudges of my nose and paw, I repositioned The Protagonist. I had her recoil in horror from the succulent, its spiky leaves now the tentacles of a verdant monster. I twisted her torso and bent her knees so she appeared to be cowering behind the metal bird, peering out at some unseen terror beyond the edge of the shelf. The 16 points of articulation were not a feature; they were my script. I could convey fear, defiance, and despair with the slightest adjustment of a plastic joint. When The Curator returned, he merely glanced at the shelf, chuckled, and said, "Silly cat, you knocked over my new figure." He then committed the ultimate artistic sacrilege: he righted her, putting her back in that same, vapid, heroic pose. I watched, a low rumble in my chest. He didn't understand. He saw a toy. I saw a muse. Let him have his order. I knew that tomorrow, the curtain would rise again on my tragedy, my comedy, my silent, perfect play. This "Sue Storm" was not a toy to be swatted, but an actress to be directed. She was, I concluded with a slow blink, worthy of my genius.
