Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a moment of questionable judgment, has acquired what appears to be a garish plastic effigy of a home, apparently for a miniature human named "Gabby." It's a "Celebration Dollhouse," though what it's celebrating besides poor taste is beyond me. Standing at a moderately impressive 25 inches, it features several rooms filled with tiny, choke-able furniture and an insulting elevator they dare to call a "Cat-A-Vator." While the promise of hidden nooks and, more importantly, two "Dollhouse Delivery" boxes is mildly intriguing, the cacophony of 10 pre-programmed sounds threatens to disrupt my meticulously planned napping schedule. It seems like an elaborate, noisy contraption designed to generate more tiny things for me to lose under the furniture, which, I suppose, is a form of entertainment in itself.
Key Features
- CAT-TASTIC INTERACTIVE FEATURES: Standing 25-inches tall, ride the Cat-A-Vator to explore 6 rooms, flip the roof to reveal a hidden attic & push a button to hear 10 sounds and phrases from the show
- MEOW-MAZING DOLLHOUSE FURNITURE: Includes super-cute doll house accessories like a Balloon Arch, a Kitty-Themed Toilet, a Bathroom Sink, a Chair, a Bed, a Buffet Table, a Piano/DJ Table, a Gift Bag
- REVEAL 2 SURPRISE TOYS: Unbox two Dollhouse Deliveries, just like Gabby does in the show, to uncover 2 mystery accessories—a toy cake and a trophy—perfect for enhancing your pretend play adventures
- BUILD A DOLLHOUSE WORLD: With everything from themed rooms and dollhouse furniture to toy figures and playsets, create a doll house world to help kids develop their imagination through pretend play
- COLLECT THEM ALL: Gabbys Dollhouse toys for kids are great preschool toys & gifts for kids that love playing with dolls and accessories, surprise toys, stuffed animals, jigsaw puzzles & board games
- Includes: 1 Dollhouse, 1 Gabby Figure, 10 Accessories, 2 Dollhouse Delivery Boxes, 1 Sticker Sheet
- Covered by the Spin Master Care Commitment. See below for full details
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived in a box so large it constituted its own sovereign territory in the living room for a full afternoon. I claimed it, of course, but my victory was short-lived. The Human, with the sort of frantic energy usually reserved for shaking the treat bag, tore it open and assembled a monument to tackiness. From my vantage point on the velvet armchair, I watched the plastic monstrosity rise, a vertical blight of pink and pastel. It had rooms, but they were absurdly small. It had furniture, but it was offensively tiny. And it made noises. Oh, the noises. A button was pushed, and a cheerful, disembodied voice chirped something about it being a "cat-tastic day." Every day is a cat-tastic day, you insipid little soundbox. It’s called being a cat. That evening, under the cloak of a moonbeam slicing through the blinds, I began my formal inspection. The plastic felt cheap beneath my discerning paws. I nudged a minuscule toilet with my nose; it was an affront to plumbing everywhere. The so-called "Cat-A-Vator," a flimsy moving platform, looked less like a sophisticated conveyance and more like a plastic guillotine for wayward paws. I would not dignify it with my presence. My investigation led me to the source of the noise—a single, malevolent button. I gave it a deliberate, testing tap. "Meow-mazing!" it shrieked. I recoiled, my fur on end. It was a caricature, a mockery of my noble language. My contempt was beginning to solidify into a firm policy of utter disregard when the Human approached, cooing. They dangled one of the "Dollhouse Deliveries"—a tiny cardboard box—before my eyes. Now this, this I understood. The universal language of Box. I permitted them to open it, revealing a plastic trophy no bigger than my claw. It was pathetic. It was useless. It was… perfect. With a single, expert flick of my paw, I sent the tiny gold-colored cup skittering across the hardwood floor. It slid beautifully, its light weight offering just the right amount of resistance before disappearing under the credenza. I turned back to the dollhouse, my assessment complete. As a "house," it was an architectural travesty. As a "toy," it was an insult to my intelligence. But as a multi-level dispenser of small, throwable objects, it had potential. I would permit it to stay. Not for "Gabby," whoever she is, but for me. The Human thinks they bought a dollhouse, but what they really acquired is a very elaborate, and very noisy, ammunition depot for my 3 a.m. floor hockey league. The trophy was just the first puck.
