Pete's Expert Summary
So, my primary biped has acquired a small, silent homunculus, presumably to appease the actual, much louder small human that lives here. This "Jenna" doll from Melissa & Doug is an unnerving effigy. Its purpose, as far as I can deduce, is to act as a decoy, absorbing the chaotic energy of the toddler. For me, its appeal is a mixed bag. The soft, plush torso appears to be an adequate, if not premier, surface for kneading my paws, a crucial part of my napping calculus. The removable bonnet is a prime candidate for being batted under the heaviest piece of furniture. However, the wipe-clean plastic limbs have a sterile, unappealing texture, and the eyes that open and close on their own accord are a violation of the natural order. It's a potential wrestling partner, but its soulless gaze suggests it might be plotting something.
Key Features
- Sweet baby cheeks and soft, cuddly body inspire kids for hours of pretend play
- Wipe-clean arms and legs
- Removable smocked romper and matching cap
- Eyes open and close, and able to suck thumb or pacifier; this product ships in its own special e-commerce packaging intended to be easier to open and reduce waste (curbside recyclable)
- Makes a great gift for toddlers and preschoolers, ages 18 months to 5, for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in one of those satisfyingly plain brown boxes that signal a new napping spot is imminent. The human, however, bypassed my needs entirely and presented the box's contents to the toddler, who squealed with a pitch that could shatter glass. I observed from my perch on the back of the sofa, unimpressed. It was a doll. A lump of fabric and plastic meant to mimic a baby, a creature I already find profoundly overrated. I closed my eyes, dismissing it as another piece of colorful junk destined to be covered in drool. Later that evening, long after the toddler had been caged for the night, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the living room. There, abandoned mid-floor, lay the doll. It was on its back, its painted eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling with a vacant intensity. I leaped down, my paws making no sound on the rug, and began a slow, deliberate patrol. As I circled the inanimate object, I noticed a subtle shift in the light. I glanced at the window—no clouds—and then back at the doll. Its eyes were now closed. I froze, my tail giving a single, involuntary twitch. A coincidence. The human must have passed through and nudged it. I am a cat of logic, not superstition. To test my theory, I moved in closer. Its face was a mask of serene, manufactured innocence. I extended a single, perfect claw and gently tapped its forehead. Its head tilted back slightly from the force. With a soft, mechanical *click*, the eyes popped open. Ah, a simple gravity mechanism. Pathetic. My superior intellect had once again triumphed over shoddy craftsmanship. Smug, I turned to leave, my dignity intact. That’s when I heard it. A faint, dry scrape. I whirled around. The doll had not moved from its spot. Its eyes were still open. But its right arm, previously splayed out to the side, was now bent, its plastic thumb plugged neatly into its mouth. It was watching me. And it was hungry. My initial assessment was wrong. This was no mere toy. This was a worthy adversary. The house, it seems, isn't big enough for the two of us.
