Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with an artifact from the United States Postal Service, the bureaucratic entity responsible for the daily slot-rattling intrusion by my nemesis, the Mail Carrier. It is a flimsy paper booklet containing twenty small, perforated squares, each depicting a cracked bell. Apparently, these are "Forever Stamps," which means their value in the human's strange paper-based economy is eternal, a concept I find deeply uninteresting. From a play perspective, they possess a minor crinkle-factor and are lightweight enough for batting. However, they lack feathers, catnip, and any real substance. My initial assessment is that this is a low-effort offering, likely procured during a tedious human errand, and is a profound waste of my magnificent hunting prowess.
Key Features
- New booklet of (20) forever stamps issued by USPS
- Features liberty bell design
- Comes either as folded convertible booklet or flat double-sided booklet pane
- No longer available for sale at USPS - collectible item, still valid for postage
- Forever stamps will always be valid for first class postage even if rates change
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object landed on the mahogany desk with a soundless flutter, an insult to the very concept of a "toy." I observed from my velvet chaise lounge, tail twitching in irritation. It bore the scent of the Enemy—the faint, sterile paper-and-ink aroma of the Mail Carrier, the uniformed intruder who dared to approach my kingdom's threshold six days a week. This was not a gift. This was a communiqué, a piece of enemy propaganda left deep inside my territory. I had to investigate. With a fluid leap, I was on the desk, my paws silent on the polished wood. The booklet lay open, revealing a grid of tiny, identical squares. A code? A roster of agents? I nudged it with my nose. The human called them "stamps," a nonsense word. Using a single, surgically precise claw, I delicately hooked the edge of one square. My intent was to capture one of these enemy insignias for interrogation—perhaps by shredding it beneath the sofa. It peeled away with a faint, sticky sound. Treachery! The moment it came free, it attached itself to the pristine white fur of my paw. A trap! A tracking device! I shook my leg, a motion of pure, aristocratic disgust. The paper square, with its ridiculous bell, clung fast. I launched myself from the desk, a gray-and-white blur of panicked fury. I skidded across the hardwood, rubbing my paw against the Persian rug, but the sticky sigil of the USPS refused to yield. This tiny, adhesive pest was a greater foe than any laser dot or feather wand I had ever faced, a maddening, persistent parasite. My human, after a most undignified fit of laughter, finally intervened, peeling the stamp from my fur and pressing it onto an envelope. And then, I understood. This wasn't a weapon to be used against me. It was a mark of surrender. The humans affix these tokens to their own messages before feeding them to the Mail Carrier, sending their papers away into the unknown. The "toy" was a miserable failure, a sticky annoyance of the highest order. But the knowledge I gained... ah, the strategic insight into the enemy's paper-shuffling rituals was invaluable. The stamps are unworthy of play, but they have earned a brief, fleeting moment of my intellectual curiosity. Now, if you'll excuse me, this espionage has been exhausting. It is time for a nap.
