Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a miniature leather-like contraption from a brand called Breyer, which, as I understand it, specializes in creating disturbingly lifelike but entirely stationary effigies of large, hay-eating beasts. This "Cimarron Western Pleasure Saddle" is, therefore, a toy for a toy. The sheer absurdity of this concept is almost enough to make me miss a nap. It boasts embossed skirts and a tiny, patterned blanket. While the blanket might serve as a passable coaster for my cream saucer, the saddle itself is too small, too hard, and utterly devoid of feathers, strings, or catnip. It seems destined to be an ornate piece of clutter I will be forced to navigate around or, more likely, knock to the floor out of sheer principle.
Key Features
- Saddle up for your next western adventure with Breyer!
- The Cimarron western pleasure saddle is beautifully adorned, and has embossed skirts
- Also comes with a diamond-patterned saddle blanket to complete the look!
- This saddle is 1: 9 in scale, and is made to fit Breyer traditional series horses
- Breyer traditional accessories are authentically-styled for realistic play. Horse and western show bridle not included.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived, as they always do, with a whisper of cardboard and distant warehouses. I, of course, claimed the box immediately, but my human seemed far more interested in the paltry contents. She extracted this... this thing. A tiny, rigid seat, intricately tooled and smelling faintly of plastic ambition. She held it out to me, wiggling it with an expression of hopeful ignorance I have come to associate with her worst ideas. I gave it a cursory sniff, my nose twitching in disdain. It was not prey. It was not food. It was an ornament. And worse, she then turned and placed it, along with its little diamond-patterned napkin, upon the back of The Silent One—the glossy, lifeless horse statue that has lorded over the bookshelf for years, its painted eyes staring into a future it will never reach. For a day, I observed the scene from my velvet perch. The human would occasionally adjust the saddle, murmuring about "authenticity" and "scale." What a ridiculous game. The Silent One was no more prepared for a "western adventure" than I was for a voluntary bath. The saddle was a monument to futility, a gilded cage for a plastic prisoner. I felt a pang of something akin to pity, or perhaps it was just indigestion. The whole affair was deeply pathetic. Then, one evening, as a sliver of moonlight cut across the living room, a new understanding dawned. I crept from my cushion, my gray paws silent on the hardwood floor. I leaped onto the bookshelf, a shadow in the dim light. I was not there to bat at the toy. I was there to perform a rescue. This was not a saddle; it was a shackle. A symbol of servitude. With a delicate, calculated nudge of my nose, I pushed the Cimarron saddle from the horse's back. It tumbled to the thick rug below with a soft, unsatisfying thud. The little blanket followed, a flag of liberation. I looked at The Silent One, now bare-backed and, in my mind, free. I had not destroyed a toy; I had staged a jailbreak. I had freed a fellow creature from the tyranny of my human's misplaced fantasies. The saddle itself was, and remains, a useless piece of tack. But as a catalyst for a dramatic narrative of freedom in which I am the clever, silent hero? For that, it is a masterpiece. I will, of course, have to knock it off the shelf every time she puts it back. My work is never done.
