Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a fit of what I can only describe as temporal delusion, has acquired a collection of flat, papery things. It appears to be an homage to a pack of four strangely-coiffed bipeds from a bygone era. The "Memorabilia Pack" contains booklets, cards, and other assorted ephemera that, while holding zero intrinsic value in terms of pounce-ability or chew-resistance, do present some secondary opportunities. The small, loose cards might be good for batting under the sofa, and the larger booklets offer a superior, crisp surface for a nap, far better than the lumpy armchair. Ultimately, its primary function seems to be distracting the human, which can be either a grave insult or a tactical advantage, depending on my mood.
Key Features
- A fabulous collection of replica Beatlemania material
- Including: Four booklets stuffed with photos and stats for each Beatle
- Fan Club paperwork, concert handbill, 1963 programme Cavern Club booklet, mixed ephemera, plus a collection of cards
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It began as a low hum. Not the satisfying thrum of the refrigerator, presaging a snack, but a tuneless, off-key humming from my human. They were hunched over the coffee table, a place usually reserved for my mid-morning sunbath, but now it was covered in… artifacts. I watched from my perch on the back of the sofa, my tail a metronome of deep suspicion. Four faces stared up from the clutter, their expressions frozen. They were everywhere: on little booklets, on cards, on what looked like official-looking documents. The evidence was irrefutable. This wasn't a toy; it was a dossier. My human was being recruited into a cult. I descended with the silent grace of a shadow, landing softly on the rug. The human was too engrossed to notice. They were examining a "Cavern Club booklet," their finger tracing the primitive lettering. I saw my opening. The collection of cards was fanned out near the edge of the table, small, glossy portraits of the four cult leaders. They were the perfect size. A test was in order. I approached, feigning a casual stretch, and then, with a flick of my white-gloved paw, I sent the card depicting the one with the round glasses skittering across the hardwood floor. It was a glorious success. The card slid and spun, a perfect imitation of a fleeing beetle. My human startled, finally breaking their trance. "Pete! You found Ringo!" they chirped, completely misinterpreting my strategic maneuver. As they bent to retrieve the card, I took the opportunity to claim the main prize. I leaped onto the table and settled my full, soft weight directly upon the open "Beatlemania Display Album," covering the remaining faces with my superior tuxedo'd form. The paper was smooth and cool beneath my fur. My human sighed, but it was a sigh of surrender. They began to stroke my back, the cult forgotten for the moment. My mission was a success. While the static nature of this "memorabilia" was an insult to the very concept of play, its individual components were excellent tools of disruption. The cards were now my scattered minions, the booklets a fine new napping spot, and the entire affair a proven method for reminding my human where their true allegiance must lie. The dossier was, therefore, deemed worthy, not as a product, but as an asset in the endless war for attention.
