Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, has procured a single, minuscule homunculus from a purveyor of juvenile plastic goods called Fisher-Price. This is not a cat toy company, an immediate mark against it. It's a "Genuine Replacement Part," which suggests the original was lost or, more likely, dispatched by a predecessor of superior taste. It is an articulated baby figure, meaning its limbs can be moved into various positions of distress, which is a mildly intriguing feature. Its purpose is to populate a small, fake house that currently occupies a perfectly good patch of sun. Frankly, its potential as a worthy adversary is low, but its skittering potential across a hardwood floor might, just *might*, save it from being utterly ignored.
Key Features
- Genuine Replacement Part
- Includes 1 Baby Figure
- Perfect Shape and Fitting for your Fisher-Price Loving Family Dollhouse
- Replacement Parts come in a sealed plastic bag - as received from Manufacturer
- Made for Fisher-Price Loving Family Dollhouse
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it often does, with the crinkle of forbidden plastic. The Staff knelt before the great, garish edifice they call the "Loving Family Dollhouse"—a structure I consider prime napping territory currently squandered on motionless inhabitants. From the plastic sheath, they produced a new offering: a tiny, silent creature in a startlingly orange jumper. Its plastic eyes, a vacant blue, stared into the middle distance. With a strange reverence, The Staff placed the new idol into a crib in the center of the upstairs room, right between the eternally smiling "mother" and "father" figures. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail giving a slow, judgmental twitch. This was not normal. The silent vigil of the other dolls suddenly seemed less placid and more sinister. They weren't just sitting there; they were *waiting*. This new baby, this replacement, was clearly the centerpiece of some bizarre, silent ritual I could not comprehend, but certainly did not approve of. Were they welcoming it? Preparing it for something? My house is a place of refined quiet and orderly meals, not a haven for creepy, plastic cults. Action was required. I am the master of this domain, and all rituals must be personally sanctioned by me. I made a fluid, silent leap onto the end table beside the dollhouse, granting me a god's-eye view of the proceedings. The plastic family remained still, their painted-on devotion to the new arrival unnerving me. I would be their chaos. I extended a single, perfect paw with claws discreetly sheathed—I am an artist, not a vandal—and hooked the new baby's articulated arm. It was lighter than a mouse, an insult to prey everywhere. I lifted it from its ceremonial crib and trotted away, its poseable limbs flailing slightly with the motion of my gait. I dropped it unceremoniously on the dark wood of the hallway floor. I gave it a firm, exploratory pat. It shot across the polished surface, spinning end over end before coming to a stop near the kitchen. I watched it go, then looked back at the dollhouse. The ritual was broken, the cult disrupted. The tiny homunculus failed as an object of worship, but as a high-speed, low-drag floor puck? I must concede, it has its merits. The Staff can find another sacrifice for their weird little family. This one now works for me.
