Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe I'd have an opinion on this... contraption. From my observations, it's a collection of flimsy cardboard discs filled with still images of various damp-looking creatures—dolphins, turtles, and what appears to be a very anxious-looking orange fish. These are meant to be inserted into a larger, red plastic device that the small human then glues to its face, making a dull *click* noise with each new picture. While the *click* itself offers a fleeting moment of auditory interest, and the discs might be suitable for a brief skitter across the floor, the primary function of staring at non-moving, non-edible sea life is a profound waste of energy that could be better spent on a sunbeam nap. It's a toy for easily amused bipeds, not for a connoisseur of fine sport like myself.
Key Features
- Features 21 3D images (3 reels).
- Ages 3+
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it often does, with the human making cooing noises and presenting a foreign object. This time it was not for me, but for the smaller, less predictable human who shares my territory. The object was a strange, crimson mask with two glass eyes. Into its maw, my human fed a flat, circular wafer. I watched from my perch on the arm of the sofa, a silent, gray arbiter of all things trivial. The small one giggled, pressing the thing to its face and pointing it toward the lamp. *CLICK... CLICK... CLICK.* A sound like a stiff knuckle cracking. Curiosity, that most treacherous of feline instincts, began to gnaw at the edges of my disdain. What vision could possibly hold the attention of such a simple creature? Later, when the small human was dispatched for its own nap, my primary human approached me, holding the crimson oracle. "Wanna see, Pete?" it murmured, holding the eyepieces near my face. I scoffed internally but leaned forward, indulging the whim. I peered through one of the portals. And the world fell away. I was no longer in my living room. I was adrift in a silent, blue eternity. Suspended before me, so close I felt I could brush it with a whisker, was a sea turtle, its skin a mosaic of ancient patterns. Its eye, dark and knowing, seemed to regard me with a wisdom that transcended species. It knew of sunbeams and shadows, of patient waiting and the slow, inexorable passage of time. It was a kindred spirit. *CLICK.* The ancient one vanished, replaced by a hunting party of dolphins, their bodies impossibly sleek. They were the masters of their domain, a silent, deadly ballet of predators. I respected their form, their obvious superiority. They were the cats of the sea. *CLICK.* The final vision was the most torturous. A reef, bursting with a thousand tiny, flitting jewels of color. Anemones, corals, and fish—so many fish! Orange, blue, yellow, all frozen in a single, maddening moment. It was the buffet of a dream, an impossible tableau of prey, offered up and yet forever out of reach. A deep, guttural growl rumbled in my chest. This was not a toy. This was a torment, a window into a world I could see but never stalk, a feast I could witness but never taste. I pulled back sharply, blinking in the warm, familiar light of the den. The human was smiling, misinterpreting my growl as a sign of excitement. I gave it a long, pointed stare, then turned my back on the crimson device. It was a marvel, yes. A work of profound and cruel magic. But a hunter cannot live on images alone. I leaped from the sofa and went to the kitchen door, demanding a real, tangible, and preferably tuna-flavored tribute to soothe my tormented soul. Let the humans keep their phantom ocean; I have bowls to empty.
