Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in his infinite and often baffling wisdom, has acquired what appears to be a shiny, flat rectangle imprisoned in a clear, hard shell. He calls it a "collectible," which I understand to be human for "expensive thing that does nothing." It features an image of some tall bipedal creature mid-leap, encased in what they call "gold" and "prism refractor." The primary appeal, from my superior vantage point, is its potential to catch a sunbeam and splash fractured light upon the walls—a sort of high-end, stationary laser pointer. However, its value as a true toy is utterly nullified by its plastic tomb. It is un-shreddable, un-chewable, and un-bendable. It is, in essence, a monument to look-but-don't-touch, a concept I find fundamentally offensive.
Key Features
- MICHAEL JORDAN 1998 FLEER ROOKIE Overstamp Facsimile Signature in Black Foil Gold Card PRISM REFRACTOR
- Officially Licensed Gold Card.
- A skilled artisan hand inscribes a detailed portrait of the superstar in raised relief on a steel die
- Graded GEM 10
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony with which he unveiled it was, I must admit, intriguing. He handled the clear slab with the kind of reverence he usually reserves for the can of premium tuna paté, his voice a low hum of nonsensical words like "rookie" and "gem-mint." I, observing from my rightful throne atop the velvet armchair, gave a slow, deliberate blink. He placed the object on the coffee table, directly in the path of the late-afternoon sunbeam that I had personally claimed for the day. An outrageous territorial violation, but I allowed it, for science. At first, nothing. Then, as the sun shifted a fraction, it happened. The "prism refractor" feature ignited. A chaotic spray of miniature rainbows danced across the far wall, skittering over the bookshelf and onto the ceiling. My tail gave an involuntary twitch. A lesser cat would have launched into a frenzy, a mindless assault on these fleeting specks of light. But I am Pete. I watched the spectral confetti with detached curiosity. It was a beautiful, silent madness—a ghost of a proper hunt. I padded silently from my chair and approached the object. I peered through the plastic at the frozen man, forever suspended in his athletic ambition. He was trapped, just as the light was trapped and fractured by the card's surface. His facsimile signature was a meaningless scrawl, the black ink a void in the shimmering gold. Here was a being of supposed greatness, reduced to a flat image in a plastic coffin, his only purpose now to cast pretty colors for the amusement of a being far more evolved. He couldn't feel the sun, or the satisfying pull of a good stretch, or the simple joy of a nap. I sniffed the corner of the slick, hard case. It smelled of nothing. Of sterility. Of stillness. I looked from the trapped man to the ephemeral rainbows on the wall, and then back again. This was not a toy. A toy is a thing of motion, of life, of glorious destruction. This was a mausoleum. A pretty, shiny mausoleum for a moment in time. With a soft huff of disdain, I turned my back on it, leaped onto the sun-warmed sofa, and began meticulously grooming my pristine white chest fur. The light show could continue its silent dance; I had more important matters to attend to. It was, and would remain, unworthy.
