Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and baffling wisdom, has acquired several small, crinkly pouches containing... flat paper squares. They call them "Pokémon cards," apparently from a distant land called Japan, which I assume has inferior tuna. The entire purpose seems to be staring at them with an alarming intensity, hoping one picture is "rarer" than another. While the crinkly wrapper offers a moment of auditory pleasure, the contents are utterly useless for pouncing, chasing, or disemboweling. It's an exercise in human obsession, and frankly, a waste of perfectly good funds that could have been spent on premium, pâté-style salmon.
Key Features
- Great for people looking to collect.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began with a reverence I usually reserve for the opening of a fresh can of wet food. The Human sat cross-legged on the floor, the four small, silver packets laid out before them like offerings to a silent god. The air crackled, not with static from my fur for once, but with their palpable anticipation. They snipped the first packet open with a tiny pair of scissors, a sound that made my ears twitch with mild interest. They slid the contents out, a small stack of stiff, glossy rectangles. I watched, unimpressed, from my perch on the arm of the sofa. More flat things. The house was full of them. They fanned the cards out, their gaze flicking across the strange menagerie depicted there. A yellow mouse with an unfortunate skin condition. A blue turtle that looked entirely too pleased with itself. Then, their breath hitched. They pulled one card forward. On it was a creature of magnificent proportions, a beast of such sublime indolence it could only be a deity. It was large, round, and profoundly, unapologetically asleep. The Human whispered its name, "Snorlax," like a prayer. I saw not a cartoon, but a kindred spirit—an icon of the Great Slumber, the master of the art of doing absolutely nothing with purpose. This changed everything. I hopped down from the sofa and padded silently over. The Human was so engrossed in their prize they didn't notice me at first. I peered at the other cards scattered on the rug. They weren't just pictures; they were a lexicon of forgotten truths. A bird engulfed in flame was a clear warning about the dangers of the kitchen stove. A creature made of shifting liquid was an ode to the spilt water bowl. This wasn't a game; it was a form of divination, a way for my simple-minded Human to glimpse the profound realities of my world. The "rarity" they prized was merely their recognition of a deeper, more feline truth. The Human carefully slid the Snorlax card into a protective plastic sleeve, an act of supreme respect. I sat before them and issued a slow, deliberate blink. The crinkly wrappers were fleeting entertainment, the lesser cards mere distractions. But this one, this icon of divine repose, was a masterpiece. These were not toys. They were scripture. And as the household's resident sage, I had a new set of omens to interpret. The packets were worthy.
