Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, has presented me with this... object. It appears to be a plastic effigy of a small human female with a disproportionately large head and an alarming amount of synthetic hair. It comes laden with an absurd quantity of tiny, losable trinkets they call "accessories," plus a flimsy sheet of paper with its picture on it. While the large, glassy-eyed figure itself is far too rigid for a satisfying pounce and offers no textural appeal, some of its smaller attachments—perhaps a miniature purse or a cellular device—show promise for being batted into the dark voids beneath the furniture. Frankly, it seems like a distraction from more important matters, such as my dinner schedule, but I suppose the crinkly packaging it arrived in might be worthy of a brief investigation.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box was placed on the floor with an air of ceremony I usually reserve for the opening of a fresh can of tuna. I observed from my perch on the arm of the sofa, twitching the tip of my tail in mild annoyance. Another offering. This one, a rectangular prison containing a creature with unnervingly vacant eyes staring out through a plastic window. The human made excited cooing sounds, which I ignored. My interest was purely academic; one must keep tabs on all new household inventory, especially that which might encroach upon prime napping territory. With a series of rips and crinkles that momentarily piqued my hunter's instincts, the human liberated the contents. The doll itself was stiff and smelled faintly of a factory. I gave its leg a cursory sniff and immediately dismissed it. Useless. But then, a shower of tiny objects cascaded onto the rug. A miniature hairbrush. A tiny, shiny handbag. A pair of sunglasses no bigger than my ear. And a silvery rectangle meant to be a phone. My skepticism began to melt away, replaced by a focused, predatory calm. These were not accessories. These were *prey*. While the human was busy attempting to style the doll's garish hair, I made my move. I crept forward, my gray tuxedo-patterned form low to the ground. My target: the silvery phone. I extended a soft paw, claws carefully retracted, and gave it a gentle pat. It skittered across the hardwood floor with a delightful, whispery sound! My pupils dilated. This was a game of quality. I pounced, batting it again, this time sending it careening under the coffee table. The chase was on. The large, silent doll just stood there, a glorified, inanimate spectator to the real entertainment. My final verdict is this: the "Jade" doll is an inert piece of plastic clutter, unworthy of the attention of a feline of my stature. It will inevitably be knocked off a shelf during a midnight romp and forgotten. Its accessories, however, are a different story. They are lightweight, they slide beautifully, and they are the perfect size to be captured, "killed," and then deposited into my human's shoe as a trophy. The toy is a failure, but its component parts show promise. I shall graciously accept these tiny offerings.
