Pete's Expert Summary
So, the Human has brought forth an artifact from the ancient year of 2001, a relic from the house of greasy smells, McDonald's. It purports to be a 'Diva Starz Purse,' a title I find both presumptuous and insulting, as there is only one diva in this household. On its own, this piece of tiny, hard plastic would be beneath my notice—too small to nap on, too hard to properly sink a fang into. However, its true nature lies in its imprisonment within a sealed plastic bag. This 'Mint in Package' status presents a challenge. The crinkle of the forbidden wrapper is a siren's call, a delightful sound promising a brief, chaotic skirmish. The purse itself is irrelevant; the true prize is the glorious, noisy disruption its unsealing would cause. A potential, if fleeting, amusement.
Key Features
- McDonalds Happy Meal Toy
- 2001 edition
- Diva Starz
- #8 Diva Starz Purse
- Mint condition in sealed package.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object wasn't presented to me as a toy. It was presented as an idol. My human, with a reverence usually reserved for the can of premium tuna, placed the plastic-entombed purse on the high altar of the living room bookshelf. It sat there, glinting under the lamp, a garish pink speck in a transparent sarcophagus. "Isn't it cute, Pete?" she cooed. I offered her a slow blink of utter contempt. Cute? It was a monument to poor taste, a fossil from an era of questionable aesthetics. I dismissed it and turned my attention to a far more interesting sunbeam. For two days, the idol watched me. Or rather, I allowed it to think it was watching me. In reality, I was conducting a thorough surveillance operation from various strategic napping locations. I noted its precise position, the way the evening light refracted through its cheap plastic shell, and, most importantly, the anxious way the Human would glance at it, ensuring its pristine condition remained unviolated. This wasn't a toy; it was a psychological anchor for her. The game, I realized, was not about the purse. It was about her attachment to its "mint" status. The third night, a storm raged outside, providing the perfect acoustic cover for my mission. I moved with a liquid silence, a gray shadow ascending the bookshelf. There it was. I leaned in, my whiskers brushing the cellophane. It smelled of nothing but aged plastic and forgotten warehouses. I could have swatted it to the floor in a single, glorious motion. The resulting clatter, the Human's gasp, the shattering of the "mint" delusion—it was a tempting symphony of chaos. But destruction is for amateurs. I am an artist of subtle terror. I extended a single, perfect claw and gently, ever so gently, hooked the corner of the plastic bag. I pulled, not with force, but with a steady, deliberate pressure. The bag slid, millimeter by millimeter, across the polished wood of the shelf until the idol teetered precariously on the very edge, a single breath of wind away from a calamitous fall. I then retracted my claw, leaving the object in its new, perilous position. I returned to my velvet cushion, feigning sleep. The true toy wasn't the purse, but the suspense I had just created. It was an exquisite, masterful game, and I had already won.
