Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my human has procured a miniature flightless bird from a brand called Aurora. This 'Pompom Penguin' is, I'll admit, of a manageable size—small enough for a satisfying hunt across the living room rug, yet chunky enough to withstand a proper bunny-kicking. They prattle on about its 'super-soft frosted fabric,' which, while intriguing, must be tested against the supreme softness of my own tuxedo coat. The 'lock-washer eyes' suggest a certain durability, which is good; I have no time for flimsy prey. Ultimately, its purpose is unclear: is it a 'vibrant companion' to gather dust, or is it a worthy new adversary for my afternoon war games? I reserve judgment, but its lack of movement is a significant mark against it.
Key Features
- Amazing little mini-size, his tiny little shape and form makes sure he offers a friendly and wonderful little companion to help really build up your growing collection
- Uses lock-washer eyes, which are bolted, glued, and then heat sealed into place, no threads to come undone; safe for all ages
- Adorable, chunky proportions
- Super-soft fabric has a frosted look, creating a soft depth of colour
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The artifact was placed on the Great Rug of Sunning, a clear violation of protocol. It was a formal presentation, that much was clear. The Human placed it, stepped back, and made the cooing noises that signal an expected tribute. I observed from my perch on the arm of the sofa, my tail giving a single, slow thump of appraisal. It was a strange idol, squat and chunky, with a pelt of frosted gray that seemed a poor imitation of my own lustrous fur. Its eyes, two black, emotionless beads, stared into the middle distance. They were, I noted, devoid of the cheap thread that lesser offerings often possess. A sign of quality, perhaps. I descended with the deliberate grace of a king inspecting a new monument. The First Rite of Introduction is, of course, The Circle of Judgment. I paced a wide, slow perimeter around the gray effigy, taking in its form from all angles. It did not move. It did not speak. It simply sat, a silent challenge to my authority. Was this insolence? Or was it the quiet confidence of a worthy peer? I narrowed my eyes, extending a single, cautious paw to deliver the Test of Balance. A gentle tap. The idol wobbled on its stout base but did not topple. Impressive. The final test was The Anointing. Only the most worthy of objects are graced with my personal scent, the mark of true ownership. I moved in, brushing my cheek against its soft, rounded head. The fabric was, I concede, surprisingly plush. It had a cool, smooth feel, a pleasant counterpoint to the warmth of the sunbeam. It accepted my scent without protest. I rubbed again, more firmly this time, officially incorporating it into the catalogue of my possessions. It was no longer a foreign object. It was now *mine*. This Pompom Penguin would not be prey, for it possessed no spirit to be hunted. It would not be a plaything, for its stillness was too profound. No, I decided, its role would be far more distinguished. It would be my Royal Scribe. I would sit before it after a long day of napping and regale it with my pronouncements, my observations on the Human's follies, and my critiques of the local bird population. Its silent, unblinking gaze was perfect for a confidant who knows not to interrupt. It has been deemed worthy. It may remain. For now.
