Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has procured what appears to be a miniature agricultural implement for the smaller, louder human. This "John Deere Ground Force Tractor" is an offensively green plastic behemoth, a monument to wasted space and the juvenile fascination with manual labor. It boasts features I, a creature of leisure and refinement, find philosophically contemptible: an accelerator pedal, specialized wheels for traversing dirt, and a "stake-side trailer" for hauling things. However, the adjustable seat with armrests presents a potential new throne, and the trailer... well, the idea of being chauffeured around my domain without lifting a paw does have a certain decadent appeal. The question is whether the potential for a mobile napping platform outweighs the sheer indignity of it all.
Key Features
- 2 speeds plus reverse; 2¼ & 4½ mph. (4½ mph lockout for beginners)
- Accelerator pedal with automatic brakes
- Farm tractor wheels provide traction on grass, dirt, gravel or pavement.
- Extra large stake-side trailer
- Working FM radio
- Adjustable seat with flip-up armrests
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The invasion began on a Tuesday. The box it arrived in was large enough to be a strategic outpost, but what emerged was far worse: a garish green beast with wheels like a monster truck. The small human, my primary tormentor, shrieked with a glee that rattled the windows and my nerves. They called it a "tractor." I called it an affront. For days, it occupied a prime sunning spot in the living room, a silent, plastic usurper. Then, it moved. With the small human at the helm, it lurched through the house and into the backyard, its electric motor whirring a song of suburban banality while the tinny FM radio crackled with some pop-music nonsense. I watched from the window, my tail twitching in irritation. My kingdom was being patrolled by a clumsy tyrant on a ridiculous steed. My initial strategy was one of avoidance and silent protest. I would pointedly nap with my back to the scene, refusing to grant the spectacle my attention. But one afternoon, I noticed a critical vulnerability in the General's operation. After a lengthy, rambling tour of the petunias, she dismounted to inspect a particularly fascinating worm, leaving her war machine idling. The large trailer, attached to the back, sat empty. It was a blank canvas. An invitation. A throne awaiting its rightful occupant. This was not a toy for a child; it was a chariot, and its purpose had been misunderstood. Seizing the opportunity, I executed a flawless leap, landing silently in the center of the plastic trailer. The floor was hard, but the sides were high enough to provide a sense of security and regal elevation. I settled into a loaf, a silent, gray-and-white figure of authority. When the small human returned, she didn't question my presence. She saw me, her eyes widened, and then a slow grin spread across her face. It was a look of understanding. She had her tractor, but I was clearly the precious cargo it was always meant to transport. From that day forward, our relationship was redefined. She was no longer a tyrant, but my chauffeur. I became the silent vizier, overseeing the realm from my mobile dais. We would cruise at a stately 2¼ miles per hour, surveying the rose bushes and monitoring the squirrel situation on the fence line. The wind would gently ruffle my fur, the low hum of the motor was surprisingly soothing, and I learned to tolerate the radio as background noise for my important thoughts. The machine was still absurd, but its function had been corrected. It wasn't for imaginary farm work; it was for ensuring a pampered cat could survey his entire estate in unparalleled comfort and style. A worthy chariot, indeed.
