Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired a thin, flat sheet of what I can only describe as potential confetti. Apparently, it's a product from the "United States Postal Service," a brand known more for its loud trucks and uniformed emissaries who never have treats than for quality toys. These are "stamps," small sticky squares meant to honor a human named Betty White, who, I'm told, was an "animal advocate." While I approve of any human who correctly identifies our superiority, the playability factor here is tragically low. There are no feathers, no crinkles, and no catnip infusion. It seems to be an object for humans to look at, lick—a barbaric custom—and then stick on things they send away. Ultimately, it’s a high-minded concept with zero practical application for a cat of my caliber, a waste of perfectly good paper that could have been used to line a shipping box.
Key Features
- Honor the life and legacy of actor, TV personality, and animal advocate Betty White (1922–2021), whose television appearances spanned the history of the medium and delighted generations of fans.
- Often called the "first lady of television," Betty White graced screens for more than eight decades.
- She achieved great fame with The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Golden Girls, a couple of TV history's most beloved and groundbreaking situation comedies, and remained phenomenally popular as an entertainer well into her nineties.
- As an avid animal ally, Betty White used the bright light of her stardom to advocate for creatures great and small.
- The Betty White stamp is being issued in panes of 20 Forever stamps.
- This Forever stamp will always be equal in value to the current First-Class Mail one-ounce rate.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object arrived not in a box, but in a flimsy envelope that barely warranted a sniff. My human placed it on her desk with a reverence usually reserved for the can opener. It was a sheet of paper, a boring, two-dimensional plane in a world where I demand at least three. But as I leaped silently onto the desk for a closer inspection, I was met with an unnerving sight: an army of tiny, smiling, silver-haired women, all looking directly at me. Twenty identical faces, a placid and knowing legion. I was, for a moment, taken aback. Was this some new form of surveillance? I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped one of the faces. It yielded with a disappointing softness. No satisfying resistance, no skittering motion across the wood grain. It was just paper. I sniffed it. It smelled of officialdom and ink, a sterile scent devoid of life or interest. I was about to deliver my final verdict—a flick of the tail and a prompt dismissal—and stalk off to a more promising sunbeam. This was beneath me. A toy? It was an insult to the very concept of play. But then, my human began to speak into her phone, her voice tinged with that soft, cooing tone she uses when she's admiring my tuxedo markings. "I got the Betty White stamps," she said. "She did so much for animal shelters, you know. A true friend to all of them." The words "animal" and "friend" hung in the air. I froze, my disdain melting into a profound curiosity. I looked back at the grid of faces. The smile was no longer just a smile; it held a glint of understanding, of allyship. This wasn't an army of spies; it was a council of guardians. This "stamp," I realized, was not a toy to be shredded or batted under the sofa. It was a sigil, a symbol of the sacred pact between enlightened humans and the superior beings they serve. These twenty little icons represented a legacy of kindness, a promise of full food bowls and gentle hands. I settled into a sphinx-like pose beside the sheet, my presence a silent, respectful vigil. The stamps were not for playing. They were for honoring. And they had, against all odds, earned my protection.
