Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with what appears to be a small, plastic effigy of their species. They call it a "Bratz Alwayz Yasmin Fashion Doll." It's a creature with an unsettlingly large head, long synthetic hair, and a vacant stare, accompanied by an arsenal of tiny plastic objects they refer to as "accessories." Frankly, the doll itself seems entirely pointless—it doesn't move, it doesn't crinkle, and it certainly doesn't dispense treats. However, the tiny purse, hairbrush, and other assorted bits and bobs have a certain appeal; they look perfectly sized for batting under the heaviest piece of furniture in the house. The large paper "poster" also shows promise for a 3 a.m. shredding session. The doll is a likely waste of my napping time, but its detachable parts might just save it from total obscurity.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with the usual fanfare from my Staff—a high-pitched cooing that typically precedes either a trip to the vet or a profoundly disappointing toy. My initial inspection of the clear plastic prison revealed its occupant: a frozen humanoid with garish pink clothes and enormous feet. I gave the box a perfunctory sniff, concluded it was inferior to the cardboard vessel it arrived in, and began grooming my pristine white chest fur, utterly unimpressed. The Staff, however, persisted, tearing open the packaging with a sound like a dying animal and setting the plastic figure on the floor in front of me. It just stood there, propped up by its comical platform shoes, staring into the middle distance. I stared back, my tail giving a slow, contemptuous thump-thump-thump against the rug. My human wiggled the doll, making its long brown hair sway. "Look, Pete! It's Yasmin! Don't you want to play?" An insult to my intelligence. I am a predator, an engine of perfect, silent grace. I do not "play" with inert statuettes. I was about to turn my back on the whole sad affair and retire to a sunbeam when my eye caught a glint of light. Beside the doll, the Staff had laid out its hoard of treasures: a tiny silver purse, a minuscule hairbrush, some shiny things that might have been jewelry. My ears, which had been flattened in annoyance, swiveled forward, locking on to the target. With a flick of my wrist that was pure, economical elegance, I sent the tiny hairbrush skittering across the hardwood floor. The sound was exquisite. The way it caught the light as it tumbled was mesmerizing. I crouched low, my hindquarters wiggling, and pounced, pinning it with a soft paw before sending it flying again, this time directly under the credenza. The doll, "Yasmin," remained motionless, a silent, forgotten totem. Her purpose was now clear: she was not the toy, but merely the delivery system for these far superior, eminently losable trinkets. My human sighed, likely misinterpreting my genius for simple distraction. I ignored them, my focus now entirely on the tiny silver purse. I hooked it with a claw and trotted off, my prize dangling from my mouth. The doll can keep her vacant expression and her absurd denim skirt; I have claimed my tribute. It will make a fine addition to my collection under the guest room bed. A flawed offering, but its component parts have earned it a passing grade. For now.
