Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a fit of what I can only assume was profound boredom, has acquired a small plastic tank of water and dust from a brand called "Smithsonian." They seem to believe that by adding water, they can resurrect "prehistoric pets" from a 220-million-year slumber. Frankly, the creatures of this era should have had the decency to stay extinct. The promise of them growing "20x their size" is hardly impressive when their original size is microscopic. I suspect this is merely a new, inferior form of television designed to distract my staff from their primary duties: petting me and dispensing treats. The only feature of genuine interest is the large paper poster, which looks delightfully crinkly and perfectly suited for me to sit upon, thereby claiming the depicted "Sea Monsters" as my own territory.
Key Features
- Hatch your own Prehistoric Pets
- They Grow to more than 20X Their Original Size
- Witness a 220-Million-Year-Old Species come to life
- Includes 23" x 17" ( 58 cm x 43 cm) Color Poster
- S.T.E.M- Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived, and the human handled it with the sort of reverence usually reserved for a fresh can of premium salmon. I watched from my perch on the back of the sofa, tail twitching in mild irritation. They performed their strange ritual: pouring purified water into a plastic basin, then adding a pouch of what looked like sand. "Life, Pete! We're creating life!" they chirped. I yawned. I create more compelling life forms in my litter box on a daily basis. For days, the tank was just a cloudy, uninteresting puddle. I dismissed it as another failed project, like the time they tried to grow catnip and only cultivated a single, pathetic weed. Then, one morning, I saw it. A flicker. A tiny, comma-shaped speck darting through the murk. And another. Soon, the tank was filled with a dozen or so of these agitated specks. The human was enthralled, but I remained unimpressed. They swam in frantic, meaningless circles, a perfect metaphor for the human's own existence. However, my duty as the household's sole guardian and security expert required me to monitor any and all new inhabitants. I began a log, mentally, of course. Subject Alpha, a slightly larger speck, favored the left side of the tank. Subject Beta had a twitchy, erratic swimming pattern. They were a pathetic invasion force, but an invasion force nonetheless. My surveillance became a round-the-clock operation. I would sit for hours, my chin on the edge of the desk, my eyes unblinking. I was no longer just watching; I was interrogating. Their frantic swimming was not random; it was a code. I was sure of it. Their movements against the cheap, plastic backdrop of a cartoon volcano were a message, a secret history of their 220-million-year war, and I was the only one intelligent enough to decipher it. The human mistook my intense focus for affection. "Oh, Petey, you love your little sea monster friends!" they'd say, stroking my back. Fools. They saw pets; I saw prisoners of war, spilling their secrets under the harsh glare of the desk lamp. One evening, as the human prepared my dinner, I noticed Subject Alpha swimming directly at the clear wall, bumping it repeatedly in a specific rhythm. Tap-tap-tap... pause... tap-tap. My ears swiveled. That wasn't just a code; it was a warning. I leaped from the desk and raced to my food bowl just as the human was about to put it down. I gave them my most demanding, urgent meow. Startled, the human fumbled with the can opener, adding an extra spoonful of tuna pâté to my bowl as an apology for their slowness. I glanced back at the tank. Subject Alpha had ceased its tapping and was now drifting calmly. I had intercepted their intelligence and used it to my advantage. These "prehistoric monsters" were not worthy of being my playthings, but as my unwitting, microscopic spies? They were utterly indispensable. The tank would stay.
