Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in her infinite and often baffling wisdom, has acquired not a toy, but *apparel* for another toy. It's a collection of miniature, sparkly garments from a brand called 'Glitter Girls,' apparently intended to dress one of those silent, glassy-eyed 'dolls' she keeps on a shelf. I see a tutu, a small jacket, and tragically glittery shoes. While the potential for batting a tiny shoe under the sofa holds some mild appeal, the primary feature seems to be 'shedding glitter,' which is an unforgivable crime against my magnificent tuxedo coat. This seems less like an engaging plaything and more like a future source of crunchy, irritating dust that will inevitably contaminate my napping spots. A potential waste of my supervisory energy.
Key Features
- Style: Floral fashion outfit for 14-inch dolls (dolls sold separately).
- Includes: Skirt, tank top, floral jacket, and glitter shoes.
- Perfect Fit: Easy-open closures make clothing a breeze to put on and remove.
- Mix & Match: This outfit is compatible with all Glitter Girls dolls and dolls measuring 3.7” (neck), 7” (chest), 6.7” (waist), and 7.3” (hip).
- Recommended Age: 3 years +
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The operation was conducted under the harsh glare of the kitchen lights, a sterile environment for such a frivolous affair. My human, the Chief Surgeon, laid the patient—a 14-inch plastic figure with unnervingly cheerful painted-on eyes—out on the table. Beside her lay the transplant materials: a floral jacket, a pink mesh skirt known as a "tutu," and other assorted fineries. I observed from my reconnaissance post atop the refrigerator, my tail twitching in mild disdain. This was not for me. This was a sideshow, a distraction from the main event, which should, of course, always be me. The Surgeon worked with a focus I usually only see when she is operating the can opener. She spoke to the patient in low, encouraging tones as she fitted the floral jacket. I noted the "easy-open" closures seemed to prevent any unseemly struggle; the procedure was swift and clean. The tutu was affixed, a ridiculous puff of pink that added an air of absurdity to the doll's perpetual grin. Then came the final, most offensive part: the glitter shoes. They were an affront to good taste, sparkling with a cheap intensity that threatened the integrity of the entire kitchen. The patient was now "dressed." The Surgeon held her up for my approval. I responded with a slow, deliberate blink of utter indifference. The "patient," now fully equipped, was abandoned on the living room rug when the Surgeon was called away by the ringing telephone. This was my chance to conduct a proper post-op inspection. I leaped silently from my perch, landing with a soft thud that went unheard. I circled the doll, sniffing the air. The outfit smelled of factory plastic, a sterile and uninteresting scent. The floral jacket was smooth, but the tutu… the tutu was a different matter. I gave it a tentative poke with my nose. It was springy, yielding. I poked it again, this time with a single, unsheathed claw. It snagged satisfyingly. With a flick of my paw, I sent the doll tumbling. Her stiff form rolled once, and one of the glittery shoes dislodged and skittered across the hardwood floor. Ah, now we were getting somewhere. The outfit was a failure, a gaudy mess. But this lone shoe? It was a thing of beauty. Small, light, and with an erratic trajectory when batted, it was a perfect instrument for a game of solitary midnight hockey. I ignored the costumed mannequin left in a heap on the rug. I had salvaged the only worthy component from the entire procedure. With the tiny, glittering prize secured gently in my mouth, I trotted off to my lair beneath the armchair, the mission a resounding, if unconventional, success.
