Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often baffling simplicity, has presented me with what they believe constitutes a "toy." It is not. It is a thin, flat sheet of vinyl, a two-dimensional object with a bizarrely smooth texture and a faint chemical scent. One side bears the sigil of some round-faced, yarn-haired homunculi from a forgotten human epoch, while the other side is allegedly "sticky." Its purpose, as far as my superior intellect can deduce, is to be permanently affixed to a surface, thereby ruining that surface for any potential face-rubs or strategic observation. It offers zero potential for pouncing, batting, or satisfying shredding. This is not an object of play; it is a piece of glorified, non-functional art, and a waste of my magnificent fur.
Key Features
- High Quality Vinyl Sticker Die-Cut Decal.
- Can be applied to any non-porous, smooth and clean surface.
- Peel & Stick application. Decals cannot be reused or repositioned once applied.
- Vinyl is weatherproof / UV Fade resistant - Indoor and Outdoor Use.
- Made and Designed in United States.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The crime was committed in broad daylight. I was observing from my post atop the bookcase, feigning sleep while actually monitoring the dust motes in a particularly interesting sunbeam, when my human approached their laptop. This laptop, you must understand, is not merely a work machine. It is my personal, custom-calibrated warming stone, a source of unparalleled comfort for my afternoon siestas. With a triumphant little hum, my human peeled the backing off the flat, offensive object and pressed it firmly onto the lid, right in the center of my napping territory. An invasion. I descended from my perch with the silent grace of a shadow and padded over for a closer inspection. The sticker stared back at me, its bold green and white letters proclaiming this space as the domain of the "Cabbage Patch Kids." The faces of these "Kids" were unnervingly cheerful, their eyes devoid of thought. I lowered my nose to the vinyl surface. It was unnaturally smooth, offering no purchase for a claw, no texture to rub my face against. It smelled sterile, of plastic and a faint, lingering adhesive. This was not a tribute. This was a territorial marker. A gauntlet had been thrown down. My first instinct, the primal urge of my wild ancestors, was to shred this insolent symbol to ribbons. But I am Pete, not some common alley ruffian. Such a display is crude, and worse, it’s exactly what the human would expect. No, my response had to be more sophisticated, a protest of pure, unadulterated contempt. I would not grant this "Cabbage Patch" the dignity of a battle. It would be met with the most devastating weapon in my arsenal: complete and utter indifference. And so, my silent campaign began. I pointedly established a new napping spot on a nearby stack of my human's "important" papers, ensuring a few would be gently knocked to the floor. When the laptop was warm and inviting, I would instead sit with my back to it, meticulously grooming my white tuxedo front as if the machine and its garish new crest simply did not exist. My human would coo, "Pete, don't you like your warm spot anymore?" I would answer with a slow blink that communicated, in no uncertain terms, that the territory had been tainted. The sticker is unworthy of my notice, and the laptop, by association, is now dead to me. Let the Cabbage Patch Kids enjoy their cold, desolate kingdom of plastic and metal. I have won, for my silence is a far greater condemnation than my claws could ever be.
