Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe our home is a preschool, based on the giant, offensively orange bucket they just introduced. This "Crayola Orange Dough," as the label proclaims, is apparently a three-pound tub of squishable, non-crumbling material for the entertainment of smaller, less refined humans. From my superior vantage point on the sofa, I can see its primary appeal is its malleability and its garish, unnatural color. While the promise of a "crumble-free" experience might reduce the number of tiny, annoying bits I have to avoid on the floor, the dough itself seems utterly pointless. It doesn't crinkle, it doesn't flutter, and it smells faintly of chemicals, not salmon. The sturdy bucket, however, once empty, might present a viable napping location. One must consider all angles.
Key Features
- Dough has soft texture and vivid colors
- Orange color
- Crumble free
- Made in America
- Sturdy storage buckets to keep dough fresh
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The monolith arrived on a Tuesday. It was not a cardboard box, the sacred vessel of my people, but a slick, plastic cylinder of a color I can only describe as a safety-vest sunset. My human presented it to the smaller, louder human with a reverence I found deeply inappropriate. They twisted the lid, breaking a seal with a pathetic little crack, and a strange, sterile scent permeated my airspace. This was not the aroma of a new hunt, but of a new and tedious chore. They called it "dough." I have investigated the Great Proving Drawer where the human keeps real dough; it is a living thing, full of yeasty potential and the promise of future buttered toast crusts. This orange impostor was a fraud. The small human plunged its paws into the bucket and pulled out a glistening, blob-like mass. It was then subjected to a series of humiliations: flattened into a pancake, rolled into a lumpy snake, and squashed into a ball. I watched from the arm of the chair, my tail-tip twitching in secondhand embarrassment for the inert substance. It had no dignity. Later, after the small human had abandoned its project for some noisier pursuit, a single, rogue piece lay upon the hardwood floor. An orange island in a sea of wood grain. My moment had come. I descended from my perch and approached it with the caution of a bomb disposal expert. I sniffed. Nothing. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave it a delicate poke. The material yielded, leaving a tiny crescent-shaped indentation. It was soft, yes, but it was a dead softness. There was no satisfying resistance, no spring-back, no life. It was simply... matter. I retracted my claw, cleaned it meticulously, and turned my back on the orange absurdity. It was not a toy. It was not a foe. It was not food. It was a brightly colored nothing, a waste of perfectly good atoms. The only thing of value was the potential of its container. I made a mental note to supervise the depletion of the orange goo so that I might claim the empty bucket as a new observation post. A king must always be looking to expand his territory, even when the new acquisition is cheap plastic.
