Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a brick of... something. It's a dense, white, vaguely squishy block of what they call "clay," from a brand named Sculpey that seems to specialize in such things. The idea, as far as my superior intellect can gather, is for them to mash it with their clumsy paws, bake it in the terrifying Hot Box, and call the resulting lump "art." For me, its potential is limited. It doesn't skitter, it doesn't crinkle, and I suspect it tastes of disappointment and chemicals, even if they insist it's "non-toxic." The only redeeming quality might be if they use it to sculpt a monument to my magnificent self, but given their track record, I'm not holding my breath. It's likely just another distraction from their primary purpose: attending to my needs.
Key Features
- Stays soft until baked – Does not air dry. Remains soft and flexible until it is baked in your home oven - No kiln needed. Store extra clay to use later.
- In the classroom –offers an inexpensive way to let children explore their creativity.
- Fun to Paint and Finish - After baking, it can be sanded, drilled, carved and painted with water-based acrylic paints.
- Easy to work - Use your hands or try a variety of clay tools and armatures to build your finished piece.
- Made in the USA - Non-Toxic Polymer Clay for Kids & Adults - This polymer clay is safe enough for artists of all ages since it conforms to ASTM D-4236 and EN 71 AP safety standards to be non-toxic.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It began as a profoundly uninteresting affair. The Human sat at the kitchen table, hunched over the white block, which had been liberated from its plastic prison. I watched from my perch on the back of the sofa, my tail giving a slow, judgmental thump-thump-thump against the cushion. For an hour, there was only the quiet squishing sound and the low hum of the Human's concentration. I was about to dismiss the entire spectacle and dedicate myself to a more rigorous napping schedule when a familiar shape began to emerge from the mush: a fish. Not a real fish, mind you, but an idol. An effigy of my greatest desire. The little fish effigy went into the dreaded Hot Box, a place from which delicious roasting bird smells sometimes emerge, but from which no good ever comes for me. It returned transformed, hardened and defiant. Then came the paints. A shimmering silver for the body, a bold orange for the fins, two soulless black dots for eyes. It was no longer a lump; it was a trophy. The Human, immensely pleased with their handiwork, placed it on the mantle over the fireplace, a taunting, motionless prize just beyond easy reach. Fools. Did they think height was a deterrent? To me, it was merely an invitation. That night, under the silvery light of the moon filtering through the blinds, I began my ascent. The armchair was my base camp. From its arm, a daring leap to the bookshelf, my claws making no sound on the dusty spines of their unread novels. I moved with the liquid grace they so often tried to capture in their blurry photographs. A tightrope walk along a row of hardcovers brought me to the edge of the mantle. There it was. The Silent Fish. It smelled of nothing but paint and heat. With the careful precision of a bomb disposal expert, I extended a single, gray-furred paw. I nudged it. Nothing. I gave it a firm pat, sending it skittering across the wood of the mantle with a dissatisfying *clack*. I hooked it with a claw and dragged it to the edge, tipping it over into the soft carpet below. I followed it down in a silent leap. On the floor, it was even more of a disappointment. It was the perfect illusion of a fish, but it lacked a soul. A masterful piece of human trickery, I'll grant them that. An admirable sculpture, but a terrible toy. I left it under the sofa and went to find a real nap.
