Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be... paper. Not the delightful, crinkly kind used for wrapping treats, but small, stiff squares from a brand called "Prophila Collection," which sounds terribly serious. These are apparently "stamps" from a place called France, featuring images of butterflies and, I shudder to think, small humans, by someone named Anne Geddes. The emphasis on "unmounted mint" and "never hinged" condition signals to my superior intellect that these are not for play. While the image of a butterfly might momentarily trick a lesser feline's brain into a predatory twitch, the utter lack of movement, scent, or texture makes this a profoundly boring object. It's an exercise in visual stillness, the antithesis of everything I find stimulating. This is not a toy; this is a piece of furniture for a doll's house, and I am not a doll.
Key Features
- France
- catalogue numbers: 3778-3779 (complete.issue.)
- unmounted mint / never hinged ** MNH
- 2004 Geburtsanzeigen - Anne Geddes
- Quality guarantee: PROPHILA guarantees top quality.
- All products are subject to the highest quality standards.
- The brand Prophila Collection guarantees this.
- This image is a sample image and not the original. The item delivered differs. This applies in particular to stamped editions.
- Over 187,000 other different offers in the Prophila range. Over 80,000 thematics, 120,000 stamps and 35,000 accessories items from all relevant publishers.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human placed the offering before me on the dark wood of the floor, holding it not with their warm, familiar fingers, but with the cold, alien grip of metal tweezers. "What do you think of this one, Pete?" they asked, their voice full of a hopeful ignorance I find both pitiable and endearing. I crouched, my gray tuxedo neat and tidy, and examined the suspect. It was a tiny rectangle, a silent little liar. It wore the disguise of a butterfly, a creature whose erratic flight is a source of profound joy and athletic challenge for me. But this one was a pretender, a ghost frozen in time, its wings forever still. This was an insult. My tail began a slow, rhythmic thump against the floor, the only sound in the room. This was not a pre-pounce twitch; it was the sound of my growing impatience. I narrowed my eyes, treating the stamp not as a toy, but as a captured spy. "So," I projected, a low rumble in my chest that my human would mistake for a purr. "You come here from 'France,' under the protection of the 'Prophila Collection,' and you dare to impersonate a worthy adversary? You have the shape, but not the soul. You do not flutter. You do not tease. You smell only of paper and the crushing weight of your own importance." I leaned in, my whiskers brushing the air just above its glossy, 'unmounted mint' surface. "Tell me your secrets. Where are the real butterflies hiding?" The paper spy remained silent, its defiance absolute. My patience, unlike the value of this collectible, was finite. I decided to force its hand. I unsheathed a single, perfect claw, a tiny sliver of pearlescent danger, and moved it slowly towards the stamp. "Perhaps this will loosen your tongue," I thought. But before I could make contact, the giant hand of my human swooped in, and a panicked voice cried, "No, Pete! Gentle! It's never been hinged!" I froze, my claw hovering in the air. Ah, I see. The prisoner has a powerful protector. It is meant to be interrogated, but never touched. It is a symbol of a chase, but never the chase itself. A more profound form of torture I could not imagine. With a sigh of deep, philosophical disappointment, I retracted my claw and stood up. I gave the tiny square one last look of utter disdain, then turned my back on it completely. I walked over to the velvet armchair, leaped up, and began to meticulously groom my pristine white chest. The verdict was in. The object was a fraud. It was not a toy, but a trap for one's attention, offering no reward, no struggle, and no victory. It was, in a word, unworthy. Let the human enjoy their collection of static little pictures; I have real sunbeams to conquer.
