Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has procured a "Magna Gyroscope" from a human institution called the Smithsonian, which I can only assume is a repository for things too boring to chase. Ostensibly, this blue plastic contraption is for "learning" about the invisible forces that govern the universe, a topic on which I am already an expert (see: Gravity, a Study in Knocking Things Off Shelves). For me, its only potential value lies in the "Spin, Lift, and Levitate" features. If it wobbles erratically and makes a whirring sound that I can stalk from under the sofa, it might just distract me from a mid-afternoon nap. The accompanying "educational poster," however, is clearly just a pre-crinkled, large-format napping surface, and I will treat it as such.
Key Features
- Learn About the Properties of Magnetism
- Perfrom Magnetic Experiments
- Spin, Lift, and Levitate
- Includes 23" x 17" ( 58 cm x 43 cm) Color Poster
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Tall One called it a "gyroscope," a word that sounded like a sneeze. I, however, knew it for what it was: a vessel. It arrived in a box of transparent prison walls, a silent, blue cyclops with a single, unblinking central point. My human fumbled with it, then pulled a long, toothed cord from its side. With a horrifying *zzzzzzzip*, a spirit was ripped from the ether and forced into the plastic shell. A high, keening wail filled the room as the object began to spin, a sound that vibrated deep in my chest plate. This was not play. This was a séance. The human placed the now-whirring vessel onto its tiny plastic altar. It stood there, humming with otherworldly energy, a spinning blue dervish defying the simple, honest physics of my world. It did not pounce, it did not flee. It simply *was*, a shimmering vortex of contained chaos on the living room rug. I flattened myself, my gray tuxedo blending into the shadow of the armchair, my eyes mere slits. What did it want? Was it a scout for a larger, more formidable spinning entity? I crept closer, my tail twitching not with excitement, but with profound metaphysical uncertainty. This thing was an omen. With a hero's courage, I extended a single, tentative paw, my claws safely sheathed. I had to know its nature. The moment my paw pad made contact, the vessel screamed. It tilted violently, its hum pitching into a desperate shriek, and shot sideways, caroming off a table leg with a sharp *clack*. It was not a spirit, but a prisoner, and my touch had shown it a glimpse of freedom. It danced madly across the hardwood, a frantic, wobbling escape attempt, its energy bleeding out with every rotation. I watched, a silent warden, as its spin slowed, its wail descending into a pathetic murmur, until it finally shuddered and fell silent, toppling onto its side. The ordeal was over. I approached the now-inert blue shell and gave it a disdainful sniff. It smelled of nothing but human hands and cheap plastic. The spirit, or whatever frantic energy had powered it, was gone. My verdict was clear: this was a most curious, if brief, form of entertainment. A spectacle of frantic, pointless energy, much like the humans themselves. It was worthy of my observation, but only when summoned by the Tall One's strange ritual. For now, its silence was a blessing, and the sunbeam on the floor was calling my name.
