Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a box of small, plastic statues. They are apparently from a moving picture show they find emotionally compelling, a detail that is entirely lost on me. The brand, "Little People COLLECTOR," suggests these are not meant for vigorous play, but for that most baffling of human activities: staring. Inside the display case are three lumpy figures: a strange brown creature, a small human in a red coat, and an even smaller one with yellow hair. At over two inches tall, they possess a certain heft that might be satisfying to bat off a high shelf, but they lack the fundamental qualities of a worthy adversary—no feathers, no crinkle, no erratic movement. Ultimately, this seems to be an object of quiet, pointless adoration for the biped, not a tool for honing my superior predatory instincts.
Key Features
- Special edition Little People Collector gift set featuring characters from the 1982 movie, E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial
- Includes 3 figures, styled like E.T., Elliott, and Gertie
- Each figure stands over 2.5 inches tall (6.9 cm)
- Figure set comes in a highly detailed package featuring graphics from the classic film
- For movie fans ages 1-101 years
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived on a day like any other, which is to say, a day I had perfected through rigorous napping and strategic sunbeam relocation. My human, however, was behaving strangely, cooing at a rectangular box with a clear window. It was placed on the mantelpiece, a sacred space usually reserved for framed pictures of my less-impressive ancestors and that dreadful singing fish. I leaped silently to the back of the sofa for a better view. Inside the box-shrine, three figures stood frozen, prisoners in a silent, colorful tableau. They were, I deduced, new household gods. There was the primary deity, a squat, brown being with a strangely elongated neck and soulful, vacant eyes. Flanking it were its acolytes: a solemn boy-figure wrapped in a sacrificial red robe, and a smaller priestess with a shock of yellow hair, her mouth agape in a silent, eternal shriek. My human would stand before them, murmuring nonsense about "childhood" and "phoning home." It was a new and disturbing religion, and I was not included in the liturgy. This would not stand. One evening, under the cloak of my own magnificent gray fur, I decided to test the power of these new idols. The mantel was a challenging climb, but a worthy pilgrimage. After a deft leap from the armchair to the bookshelf, I was before them. I stared into their glossy, unblinking eyes. I gave them my most intimidating slow-blink, the one that communicates both affection and the promise of swift annihilation. They did not blink back. I nudged the box with my nose. It slid a fraction of an inch, the plastic making a dissatisfying scrape against the wood. They offered no sign, no divine intervention, no rattling sound of hidden catnip. I sat back on my haunches, tail twitching in profound disappointment. These were not gods. They were imposters. They were dense, silent, and utterly devoid of playability. They couldn't even be bothered to fall over with any real panache. With a sigh that ruffled my white tuxedo bib, I hopped down. Let the human have their false plastic idols. I would return to my own worship at the true altar of the household: the automatic food dispenser, whose divine power was, at least, tangible and delivered twice a day.
