Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with an artifact clearly intended for the lesser, non-furry infant of the household. It is a hollow, flexible sphere of some garish pink plastic, full of holes and containing smaller, noisy spheres that I am meant to find stimulating. While the rattling sound is a rudimentary, yet effective, imitation of trapped prey, and the open-frame design practically begs for a claw to be hooked through it, its primary association with the drooling usurper of laps gives me pause. It could offer a moment's distraction from my rigorous napping schedule, but I suspect its true purpose is to be lost under the sofa, gathering dust bunnies as its primary companions. We shall see.
Key Features
- Shake up fun with three rattles in one
- Award-winning design is made for little fingers
- Smooth, flexible toy for newborns and up
- Introduces cause and effect
- Keep in the diaper bag, nursery and playard
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The offering was placed not on the floor, but on the plush velvet of my designated chaise lounge. The audacity. It was an open-work cage of a shocking pink hue, a color I find personally offensive to my distinguished gray-and-white coat. Inside, three lesser orbs rattled with a cheap, plastic desperation whenever the thing was moved. My human made a little shake, then left it there, a silent challenge in the middle of my napping territory. I regarded it from across the room, narrowing my eyes. Was it a trap? A test of my intellect? A monument to poor taste? For a full ten minutes, I simply observed, allowing it to suffocate in the full weight of my judgment. My curiosity, that most vulgar of feline instincts, eventually won out. I approached with the silent, deliberate steps of a seasoned hunter. I extended a single, perfect paw, claws sheathed, and gave the sphere a gentle tap. It rolled away, its internal prisoners chattering nervously. The sound was not unpleasant. It was the sound of a problem that needed solving. I circled it, noting its flexibility as I nudged it with my nose. It yielded, squishing slightly before springing back into its spherical shape. The holes, I noted, were too small for my entire paw, but perhaps not for a single, well-aimed claw. The game, as it were, became clear. This was not a toy to be merely batted about. It was a puzzle box. I pinned the Orb with one paw and began my work, meticulously inserting a single claw into one of the many diamond-shaped apertures. I tried to hook one of the rattling beads, to silence it, to *possess* it. But it always slipped away, tumbling to another part of the cage. I bit the flexible frame; it was satisfyingly chewy but offered no purchase. I sent it skittering across the hardwood, pouncing on it just as it was about to roll under the credenza. The chase was exhilarating, the puzzle maddening. My human may have intended this for a simple-minded infant, but they had unwittingly provided me with a rather elegant physics problem. It has passed its initial trials. The Pink Abomination can stay. For now.
