Pete's Expert Summary
My human, you have brought another object into my kingdom for judgment. This appears to be a small, rubbery effigy of the pointy-eared fellow from your glowing box. They call it a "Noble Collection," which is rather bold, as I am the only truly noble thing in this house. Its primary feature seems to be its malleability, allowing it to be bent into various undignified poses, a concept I heartily approve of. The miniature communication device it clutches is, of course, the main event—perfectly sized for batting into the fourth dimension beneath the sofa. While its purpose as a "collector's item" is entirely lost on me, its potential as a silent, posable victim for my strategic ambushes gives it a sliver of potential beyond gathering dust.
Key Features
- Officially licensed Star Trek Spock by CBS Studios INC.
- Bendable and posable to display your way
- This highly detailed figure is approximately 7” tall
- Includes communicator accessory
- Get your hands on them to experience all the fun!
- For kids, fans, and collectors ages 7+
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived with the arrogance of a visiting dignitary, placed by the human on the end table—a silent, blue-clad sentinel with an unnervingly logical gaze. For an hour, I watched it from the safety of the armchair, my tail twitching a rhythm of pure skepticism. This was not a crinkle ball. It was not a feather wand. It was an *idol*. The human had created a shrine to a plastic man, leaving him to stand guard over the remote controls. The figure’s stillness was a challenge, its tiny, shiny "communicator" a mockery of the jingle bells I occasionally deign to chase. This would not stand. My first move was reconnaissance. A silent leap onto the table, not a single cushion disturbed. I circled the blue-shirted statue, sniffing its synthetic base. It had the faint, sterile smell of a factory, a place devoid of sunbeams and salmon pâté. I nudged its rubbery foot with my nose. It yielded, wobbling slightly but not falling. Interesting. It was flexible, not brittle. An opponent with resilience. My gaze fixed on the communicator, a tiny black-and-silver morsel gripped in its hand. That was the source of its power, I decided. It was how it communicated with the mothership, plotting its takeover of my napping spots. The plan formed with the swift, brilliant clarity that defines my species. A direct assault was too crude. This required subterfuge. I pretended to lose interest, turning my back to the figure and beginning to meticulously groom my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I watched it. The moment was right. In a single, fluid motion, I spun around and executed a perfect paw-hook maneuver, not at the figure itself, but at the wrist holding the device. My claw snagged the communicator perfectly. It flew from the figure's grasp, tumbling through the air in a beautiful arc. The tiny piece of plastic skittered across the wood floor, and I was upon it. A quick bat sent it under the entertainment center, lost to the ages. The mission was a success. I then returned to the now-disarmed agent. With a deliberate shove of my head, I pushed the figure over. It landed silently on the rug, its bendable limbs twisted into a posture I can only describe as "highly illogical." I left it there, a warning to any other miniature invaders. As a toy, its interactivity is limited. But as a foil for a masterclass in feline counter-intelligence? Acceptable. It has earned the right to remain, for now, as a monument to my victory.
