Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with what is, insultingly, a toy for a human infant. It's called an "Oball" by a brand named "Bright Starts," a name far too cheerful for my liking. It is, essentially, a hollow sphere of brightly colored, flexible plastic riddled with thirty-two large holes. While its primary colors are an assault on my sophisticated visual palette, I must concede that the design is intriguing. The holes and lightweight nature would make it ridiculously easy to hook with a single claw, carry in my mouth, or bat across the hardwood floors without much effort. The flexibility means it won't be a stubborn, unyielding object. It might just be engaging enough to warrant a brief pause in my napping schedule, though I resent its intended demographic.
Key Features
- The Oball is a best-selling flexible toy ball that has been engaging tiny fingers for over 25 years; flexible design features 32 finger holes to help baby to easily grip and throw
- Smooth, patented design makes the Oball soft and captivating for little hands; builds baby's confidence to grip and hold a ball;
- Perfect for kids of all ages; Wipes clean; over 8 million sold and counting
- BPA-Free; 4 inches diameter; fits in most diaper bags for on the go play; a baby registry must-have and great first toy for babies ages newborn and up
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object landed on the rug with a soft, unassuming thud. It was a cage of gaudy primary colors, a geometric nightmare that offended my sensibilities. My human, the Warden of this comfortable prison, beamed down at me, clearly expecting gratitude. I gave them a slow blink of utter disdain. This… *thing*… was a suspect, brought into my interrogation room without cause. I am Pete, and I get to the bottom of things. I began my initial sweep. Circling the perimeter, I noted its construction: a lattice of smooth, pliant material. No scent betrayed its origin, a true professional. I nudged it with my nose. It yielded, flexing slightly—a sign of weakness. I peered through one of the many openings, trying to see its secrets, but it was hollow. Empty. A silent, stoic prisoner. This would be a tough nut to crack. The Warden watched, muttering something about it being "easy to grasp." They had no idea of the psychological warfare about to commence. Patience exhausted, I moved to advanced techniques. A single, needle-sharp claw extended from my white paw. I hooked it neatly into an aperture and gave a sharp tug. The suspect jolted, skittering away across the floor with a surprising lack of noise. It was trying to flee. The chase was on. I pursued it under the coffee table, my gray fur a blur against the dark wood. It bounced off a table leg, its flexible frame absorbing the impact and sending it careening in a new, unpredictable direction. It was a more clever adversary than I anticipated. Finally, I cornered it against the leg of the great soft throne the humans call a "couch." I pounced, pinning it beneath my front paws. The cage buckled slightly under my weight, a silent admission of defeat. It refused to give up its secrets, to confess its purpose, but its frantic, silent dance across the floor was all the testimony I needed. Its sole purpose was to be hunted. An ignoble calling, perhaps, but one it performed with surprising skill. Verdict: The suspect is a worthy diversion. Its infant-level aesthetics are a disgrace, but its flawless engineering for capture and pursuit grants it a stay of execution. For now, it can remain in my territory.
