Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human has presented me with a box. Not a toy, mind you, but a *project*. This is a "REALIZE MODEL Genosaurer" from Takara Tomy, a brand whose plastic formulations I generally respect. Essentially, it's a box of tiny, skeletal parts that the human must painstakingly assemble into a rather menacing, if undersized, robotic dinosaur. It requires no batteries, which is a profound relief—no sudden whirring to interrupt my meditations. Its appeal lies not in any interactive feature, for it has none, but in its potential as a static object of contemplation. I foresee it being an excellent shelf decoration, perfectly positioned for me to practice my gravity experiments upon when the mood strikes. The true entertainment, however, will be watching the human's clumsy fingers struggle with the assembly.
Key Features
- (C) TOMY (C) ShoPro
- Does not use batteries
- Batteries required: False
- Item length width height: 11.0 centimeters
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ritual began, as it always does, with the crinkle of cellophane and the soft sigh of a cardboard box yielding its contents. My human spread a black mat across the coffee table—a clear invitation for me to immediately occupy its center, which I did with languid grace. Upon this dark stage were scattered dozens of tiny, black and purple plastic fragments, a deconstructed skeleton. This was not a toy for me; this was a test of my human's dexterity, and I, Pete, would be the sole, discerning judge. For hours, the slow opera of creation unfolded. The click-clack of clippers trimming plastic, the faint scrape of pieces being fitted together. I observed, a gray and white sphinx, occasionally extending a soft, clawless paw to "inspect" a particularly small piece. A gentle tap would send a minuscule gear skittering across the mat, prompting a frustrated hiss from the human that was a pale, pathetic imitation of my own. This was my role: quality control. Was this tiny piece truly necessary? Let us see how the builder fares without it for a few agonizing minutes. Ah, there it is, right by my tail. You're welcome. As the creature took shape—a spine here, a leg there—it began to exude a certain dark charisma. It was all sharp angles and latent power, a worthy effigy. The final piece was the head, a wicked thing with a transparent purple canopy over its cockpit. The human, with a triumphant whisper, clicked it into place. The Genosaurer was complete. It was placed on the shelf, a dark idol basking in the lamplight. My human stared at it, proud. I stared at it, calculating. I waited until the dead of night, when the house was steeped in silence. I leaped onto the bookshelf, a silent, tuxedoed shadow. I approached the plastic beast. It was smaller than me, motionless, posing no real threat. I sniffed its pointy snout. An uninteresting scent of factory and human hands. But it held my human's admiration, and that could not stand. I did not shove it to the floor; that would be crude. Instead, I gently, precisely, nudged it with my nose until it turned a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, its back now facing the room. A simple, elegant statement. There is only one predator worthy of admiration in this house. The model itself is a fine sculpture, but its true value was in the theatrical performance of its construction and my subsequent, silent assertion of dominance. It is, I conclude, worthy. Not as a toy, but as a prop in my own quiet drama.
