Pete's Expert Summary
My Human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has brought another small, hard effigy into my domain. This one, they chirp, is a "Funko Pop," a piece of plastic meant for staring at, which is an activity humans seem to enjoy far too much. It's some sort of wide-eyed, wild-haired creature from a show I have zero interest in watching. It is made from an unyielding vinyl, completely unsuitable for a satisfying chew, and at a mere 3.75 inches, it is too small to be a worthy wrestling partner. Its only potential value lies in its size and weight—perfect for a targeted swat from the mantelpiece to test the laws of gravity. Otherwise, it's just a soulless, big-headed dust-gatherer, a tragic waste of a perfectly good sunbeam spot.
Key Features
- IDEAL COLLECTIBLE SIZE - At approximately 3.75 inches (9.5 cm) tall, this vinyl mini figurine complements other collectable merchandise and fits perfectly in your display case or on your desk
- PREMIUM VINYL MATERIAL - Made from durable vinyl, this collectible is built to last and withstand daily wear, ensuring long-lasting enjoyment for fans and collectors alike
- GIFT IDEA FOR THE MUPPETS FANS - Ideal for holidays, birthdays, or special occasions and as a present this figurine is a must-have addition to any The Muppets merchandise collection
- EXPAND YOUR COLLECTION - Add this unique nan vinyl display piece to your growing assortment of Funko Pop figures, and seek out other rare and exclusive collectible items for a complete set
- LEADING POP CULTURE BRAND - Trust in the expertise of Funko, the premier creator of pop culture merchandise that includes vinyl figures, action toys, plush, apparel, board games, and more
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived in a box, a clear plastic prison from which my Human carefully extracted it. They called it "Baby Animal," a ridiculous name for something so static and silent. They placed it on the bookshelf, right between a book on something called "economics" and a framed picture of a lesser, hairless primate I'm told is a "cousin." The thing just stood there, a three-and-three-quarter-inch monument to poor taste, absorbing the light from my favorite napping window with its oversized, vacant head. Its silence was its most unnerving quality. It did not twitch a whisker. It did not blink. It simply watched. For the first day, I treated it as the intruder it was. I circled the bookshelf from the floor, my tail twitching in a rhythm of pure contempt. I leaped onto the desk opposite, staring it down, trying to assert my dominance through sheer force of will. The vinyl creature did not yield. Its painted-on, manic grin and wide, black eyes betrayed no fear, no respect, nothing. It was a void. This was not a toy to be conquered, but an enigma to be solved. What was its purpose? What secrets did it hold behind that vapid expression? The breakthrough came on the third night. A storm was raging outside, and the Human had the audacity to be asleep, leaving me to face the thunder alone. I sought higher ground, landing silently on the bookshelf. There it was, my silent neighbor. In the intermittent flashes of lightning, its shadowy form seemed to pulse with a strange energy. I crept closer, nose to plastic nose, and in the quiet between thunderclaps, I found myself doing something unexpected. I began to tell it things. I confessed to the deliberate shredding of the armrest, the calculated trip that sent the Human’s breakfast cereal flying, the secret stash of stolen hair ties under the sofa. The little vinyl figure listened, its maddening grin never changing. It offered no absolution, no judgment. It was the perfect confidant, a silent keeper of my darkest, most feline deeds. When the storm passed and the morning light crept in, my Human found me curled up on the bookshelf, my tail draped protectively around the base of the tiny statue. They foolishly thought I had "made a friend." I had not. I had acquired a priest, a therapist, a vinyl vessel for my magnificent ego. I will allow it to remain. Not as a toy, but as my own personal, silent historian.
