Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a fit of what can only be described as a profound misunderstanding of my needs, has brought a long, flat plank of wood with noisy, round things attached to its belly into my domain. Apparently, this "Roller Derby" device is for bipedal creatures to clumsily propel themselves across concrete, a spectacle I find deeply unimpressive. While the main board’s 7-ply maple surface offers a decently-sized, slightly curved platform for a strategic nap or a vigorous claw-sharpening session, its true value is hidden from the simpletons who designed it. The saving grace, the one spark of genius in this whole affair, is the inclusion of a miniature, paw-sized version—a 'fingerboard'. That tiny plank is a worthy adversary for a lightning-fast swat under the sofa; the large one is merely its oversized, and rather gaudy, packaging.
Key Features
- DECK Classic size and shape complete deck 31in x 7.5in / 7-Ply Hard Rock Maple
- WHEELS 50mm Injected Polyurethane wheels for a smooth ride
- TRUCKS Sturdy 5in Aluminum Trucks to carve down the street
- FINGERBOARD INLCUDED Set includes matching fingerboard
- GRAPHICS Super cool graphics designed in collaboration with Greg Lutzka
- LEARN TRICKS Skateboard includes video links to tutorials by Pro-Skateboarder, Greg Lutzka
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box it arrived in was, I must admit, of superior quality—sturdy, with satisfying corners for a proper chin-rub. But then the human tore it open, revealing the monstrosity within. It was a plank, yes, but one defaced with the image of a human astronaut, floating aimlessly in a star-dusted void. An insult. I am the one who navigates the vast emptiness of the hallway at 3 a.m. I am the silent master of gravitational fields, able to leap from the floor to the highest bookshelf without a sound. This helmeted buffoon on a board was a pretender to my throne. My human placed it on the floor with a clatter that sent a ripple of irritation down my spine. He then presented a tiny replica, the "fingerboard," wiggling it before my nose. A paltry offering, a distraction from the main effrontery. I turned my back on the miniature toy, my gaze fixed on the larger board propped against the living room wall. All day, the astronaut stared out with a blank, vapid expression, a silent challenge to my sovereignty. I would not let it stand. That night, when the house was steeped in silence and the only light was the cool, ethereal glow from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, I made my move. I did not approach it as a toy. This was not a game. I padded across the floor, my tuxedo-furred form a shadow moving with purpose. With a single, fluid motion, I leaped. Not to ride it, not to attack it, but to claim it. I landed squarely in the center of the deck, my weight causing it to settle with a soft creak. I sat, a living statue of regal disdain, my soft gray form completely obscuring the face of the counterfeit space explorer. From my new perch, I surveyed my kingdom. The board was no longer a vehicle for a lesser species; it was a dais, a pedestal elevating me to my rightful height. The human found me there in the morning, a silent king on his conquered throne, and seemed to understand, for he simply nodded and filled my food bowl. Later, I batted the tiny fingerboard around for a bit. It was an amusing scepter, but ultimately, the larger board had found its true purpose: to serve as a monument to the one true master of this universe. It is, I have decided, worthy. Not as a toy, but as an object of proper worship.
