Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired yet another small, shiny piece of metal. They refer to it as a "Communicator" from one of their space-faring television programs, which I occasionally watch from the arm of the sofa. From my superior vantage point, I can deduce this is not a toy. It's a pin, approximately two inches of molded metal meant for adornment, not amusement. While its golden sheen might catch the light in a moderately diverting way, its primary feature is a sharp point on the back, making it fundamentally flawed for pouncing. It is designed to be attached to a surface, not batted under one. A classic case of human priorities: looking important rather than providing a quality stalking experience.
Key Features
- Brand New
- Star Trek Voyager Ds9 Communicator Replica Uniform Pin Gold
- Pin Measures Approx 2 Inches Tall
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The day it arrived, the air was thick with the scent of cardboard and my human’s peculiar excitement. He unboxed the tiny object with the reverence usually reserved for a particularly succulent piece of roast chicken. He held it up to the light, a small, golden chevron. "Look, Pete! A combadge!" I, of course, remained unimpressed, performing a detailed grooming of my left shoulder to indicate my total lack of interest. It was small, hard, and had no feathers. A trifecta of uselessness. He pinned it to the collar of his strange, dark robe and went about his day, the little badge gleaming from his chest. Later, as I was perched atop the bookcase, conducting my daily surveillance of the domain, a beam of afternoon sun struck the pin. It didn't just reflect the light; it seemed to swallow it and spit it back out in a focused, shimmering beam that danced upon the far wall. The light-dot trembled, not with the frantic, mindless energy of the human's laser pointer, but with a strange, deliberate pulse. It moved from the wall, across a lampshade, and came to rest directly on the handle of the cupboard where the Dreamies are kept. It held there for a full three seconds, a silent, golden instruction. I was down from that bookcase in a flash. My skepticism warred with the undeniable evidence. I sat before the cupboard, looked back at the human, and let out a single, inquisitive "Mrrow?" He looked up from his glowing rectangle, saw where I was sitting, then noticed the glint of light from his own chest pointing the way. A slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, you want a treat, buddy?" He got up and obliged. As I crunched on the glorious morsels, I glanced at the badge. It was no longer glowing, its secret message delivered. This object is not a toy to be trifled with. It cannot be bitten or bunny-kicked. Its purpose is far more profound. It is an oracle, a silent conspirator in my quest for sustenance, a golden ally pinned to the very source of all snacks. It does not need my play. It has earned something far greater: my strategic cooperation. We have important work to do.
