Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a flimsy, foldable piece of paper from an entity they call the "USPS," an organization I associate with the daily territorial intrusions of the Mail Carrier. It is covered in tiny, perforated squares bearing images of a waving flag, a symbol humans seem to find endlessly fascinating. The purpose, as far as I can tell, is for the human to lick these little squares—an act of profound desperation, surely—and stick them onto other, larger pieces of paper. From a playability standpoint, it possesses a certain skittering potential when batted across the hardwood floor, but its thinness suggests it would be easily lost under the sofa, becoming just another forgotten relic in the dust-bunny graveyard. A momentary diversion, perhaps, but hardly a substitute for a quality nap.
Key Features
- Brand new booklet of 20 first class stamps
- Features four flag images with words "freedom", "liberty", "equality", "justice"
- Forever stamps are always equal in value to the first-class mail one-ounce rate
- Booklet has 12 stamps on one side, 8 on the other
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Warden, my primary human, placed the small blue booklet on the coffee table with an air of administrative finality. I watched from my throne—a velvet cushion atop the bookcase—as she left the room, leaving the curious object unattended. My initial inspection was, to be frank, disappointing. It smelled of cheap paper and the faint, metallic tang of ink. I nudged it with my nose. It didn't squeak, it didn't jingle, it didn't even have the decency to be filled with catnip. A failure on all counts. I was about to dismiss it and return to my scheduled grooming session when a subtle shift in the air caught my attention. It wasn't a sound or a smell, but a feeling—a low hum of… potential. I padded closer, my paws silent on the wood. The booklet lay open, revealing its grid of tiny, colorful flags. I focused on one, the one emblazoned with the word "FREEDOM." As I stared, the edges of the room seemed to soften. The ticking of the grandfather clock faded, replaced by the whisper of wind through tall grass. I could almost feel the sun on my fur, not filtered through a windowpane, but direct and wild. I blinked, and the sensation vanished. The living room snapped back into focus. Intrigued, I moved my gaze to the next sigil: "LIBERTY." This time, the illusion was stronger. I saw a vision of the front door, not closed and locked, but swinging gently on its hinges, an invitation to the vast, squirrel-filled kingdom beyond. Then "EQUALITY," which conjured a glorious image of the dog being served the same dry, pellet-shaped insults he always gets while I feasted upon a mountain of freshly poached salmon. And finally, "JUSTICE," a satisfying fantasy of the vacuum cleaner spontaneously short-circuiting in a shower of triumphant sparks. Each square wasn't just paper; it was a potent, distilled dream. This was no mere booklet of postage. This was a collection of concentrated possibilities, a compendium of feline desires. The Warden uses them to send messages, but she has no idea of their true power. I now understand. This isn't a toy to be batted about. It is a tool for meditation, a catalyst for manifestation. I settled down beside it, careful not to disturb the delicate paper. I would not shred this object. I would guard it, occasionally focusing my intent on the "FREEDOM" square, sending a clear psychic message to The Warden. Perhaps, one day, she will understand its true purpose is not to mail letters, but to open doors.