Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with what they seem to think is a "toy." It is, in fact, a collection of flat, printed cards featuring stark black-and-white patterns. They are apparently designed for the "brain development" of a newborn human, a creature with significantly less-developed faculties than my own. While I must admit, the high-contrast geometric shapes and simple animal figures are visually arresting and do tickle the primal predator-response centers of my brain, their inherent lack of three-dimensionality is a fatal flaw. They do not bounce, they do not crinkle, they possess no feathers, and they are utterly devoid of the tantalizing scent of catnip or prey. They might serve as a momentary distraction for an unrefined mind, but they are a profound waste of my time, which could be better spent monitoring the sunbeam's progress across the rug.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
I was in the midst of a particularly sublime nap, my luxurious gray and white fur soaking up the precise patch of afternoon sun on the living room floor, when I was disturbed. The Tall One knelt beside me, holding a small, flat box. My ear twitched in annoyance. I had already inspected the box—it was of inferior, non-corrugated quality and thus useless for sitting purposes. From it, they produced a series of stiff, shiny squares. One was held before my face. It was a dizzying swirl of black and white. An insult. Did they think my sophisticated mind could be entertained by such two-dimensional folly? I gave a slow, deliberate blink to communicate my profound disappointment and turned my head away. Undeterred, the human laid several of the cards out on the hardwood floor like some sort of bizarre, minimalist art installation. A checkerboard. A circle. Something that was vaguely fish-like but lacked all the proper fish-like smells. I sighed, the sound of a patient aristocrat forced to endure the whims of the common folk. Yet, I could not deny it; my eyes kept being drawn to the stark patterns. Against my better judgment, I rose, stretched languidly, and padded over. I sniffed a card depicting a series of black dots. It smelled of paper and human hands. Pathetic. I gave it a single, gentle tap with a soft, retracted claw. It skittered a few inches across the slick floor. A flicker of interest. I tapped it again. It slid. This was not a chase. This was... sweeping. After a few more perfunctory taps, I grew bored of this menial labor. The human was watching me with that hopeful, simple expression they get. I needed to deliver my final verdict. I walked deliberately across the field of cards, feeling their cool, smooth surface under my paws. Then, finding the one with the most visually offensive pattern—the chaotic spiral—I lay down directly on top of it, tucking my paws beneath my chest and obscuring it completely from view. I closed my eyes, letting out a soft purr of finality. The cards were not a toy. They were not even an adequate source of visual stimulation. They were, it turned out, a slightly uncomfortable and wholly unsatisfying placemat. Having thus conquered the strange paper squares and declared them unworthy of my attention, I resumed my far more important work of napping. The Tall One could clean them up whenever they were ready.
