Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has procured a miniature representation of its own tedious life cycle. This "Everything for Baby" set by Fisher-Price is, ostensibly, a collection of plastic props for tiny humans to practice being big humans. It includes a small plastic being and all the absurd contraptions it requires: a stroller for pointless journeys, a high chair for messy feedings, and a "play mat" that looks like an insultingly small and uncomfortable place for a nap. For a feline of my stature, its only potential lies in the individual pieces. The small figure might be bat-able, the stroller could be satisfyingly knocked over, but as a whole, it is a monument to the noisy, inconvenient creatures it mimics. A waste of perfectly good plastic that could have been a laser pointer.
Key Features
- Includes baby, carrier, stroller, high chair, play mat and bib
- Bring Everything for Baby to the Loving Family Dream Dollhouse! (Sold separately;)
- Pull-out ironing board with tethered iron
- Bring Everything for Baby to the Loving Family Dream Dollhouse (Sold separately;)
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with little fanfare, its contents unceremoniously dumped onto the rug by the smallest of my humans. I watched from the arm of the leather chair, a silent, gray judge observing the plastic detritus. A stroller, a carrier, a high chair… a complete diorama of domestic drudgery. My initial assessment was a swift and resounding "unworthy." I had important sunbeams to patrol and the structural integrity of a new cardboard box to test. These trifles were beneath my notice. I closed my eyes, dismissing the scene as yet another example of my staff's questionable purchasing habits. For a week, the tiny plastic homunculus sat in its high chair, a silent sentinel in the middle of the living room floor. Its painted-on eyes held a placid, infuriating emptiness. Every time I padded past, I felt its vacant stare on my magnificent tuxedo coat. It didn't squeak, it didn't crinkle, it didn't dart away in a delightful frenzy of fear. It just sat there, a tiny effigy of the very creature whose sudden wails could shatter the perfect stillness of my afternoon slumber. This was not a toy. It was an idol representing everything I disdained. A quiet mockery. The storm that had been brewing in my soul finally broke one evening. The house was dark, the humans lost in their noisy picture box. I descended from my perch, a shadow with purpose. I did not bat at the figure. Play was not my objective. This was a matter of principle. With the surgical precision of a seasoned hunter, I hooked a claw under the leg of the high chair and tipped it over with a soft clatter. The plastic "baby" tumbled out. I nudged it with my nose. It was smooth, hard, and utterly soulless. Perfect. I took the figure gently in my mouth—not to chew, but to transport. This was a relocation, a strategic removal from a place of honor. I carried my prisoner to the farthest corner under the antique credenza, a dusty catacomb of forgotten things. There, I dropped it. It lay on its back, its painted eyes staring up into the wooden abyss. It was no longer a centerpiece, but a forgotten relic, a tribute to my authority. The other pieces of the set could remain scattered on the rug; they were meaningless. But this one, this symbol of my rival, was now exactly where it belonged: out of sight and under my complete and total dominion. A surprisingly fulfilling, if unorthodox, interactive experience. The set is junk, but the effigy is a five-star tool for catharsis.
