Pete's Expert Summary
So, my Human has presented me with this… this effigy. It's a Madame Alexander, a brand known for creating small, inert humans that other, larger humans stare at on shelves. This one is disguised as a koala, a transparent and frankly insulting attempt to pander to my superior animal sensibilities. Its purpose, I deduce, is to serve as a "practice baby" for a small human, a squishy stand-in for them to maul before they get any bright ideas about my magnificent tail. While the hard, unyielding vinyl of its face and limbs holds absolutely no appeal, I must confess a certain professional curiosity about the texture of its fuzzy gray onesie. It could, in a moment of extreme desperation, serve as a passably soft headrest, but I suspect its primary function will be to absorb drool that is not my own, making it ultimately a waste of prime napping real estate.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a clear box, a prison from which it stared with a vacant, painted-on cheerfulness. The Human cooed at it, calling it "Sweet Smiles," and placed it on the arm of the Big Chair—my throne. I watched from the floor, tail twitching in annoyance. It was an idol of some sort, a silent, smiling usurper clad in the fleece of a lesser mammal. For the first day, I gave it a wide berth, treating it with the contempt it deserved. It sat there, unblinking, its plastic face a mask of placid idiocy. It didn't move, it didn't breathe, it didn't even have the decency to smell interesting. My nightly patrol, however, required a full inspection of the territory. Under the silver glow of the moon filtering through the window, the doll took on a different quality. It was no longer just an object; it was a sentinel. I leaped silently onto the cushions, approaching with the low, predatory crouch I usually reserve for rogue dust bunnies. Its koala suit, I noted, was indeed plush. I extended a single, careful claw and snagged a fiber. The quality was acceptable. My investigation continued to its face. I sniffed the smooth, cool vinyl. Nothing. I gave its cheek a tentative pat. The head lolled back with a soft, hollow thud against the chair. That's when I understood. This wasn't a rival. This was a prop. A tool. A profound wave of creative genius washed over me. The next morning, when the Human came into the room, she found the doll lying face-down on the floor. She picked it up, tut-tutting, and placed it back on the chair. An hour later, she found it wedged behind a cushion. Later still, it was perched precariously on the edge of the ottoman. She was mystified, blaming "gravity." She never suspected me, her perfect, gray-tuxedoed gentleman. She didn't see me, in the dead of night, practicing my most dramatic kill-shakes on its soft body or perfecting the art of the "gravity-assisted shove" from a high ledge. The doll offered no resistance, its sweet smile never faltering as it tumbled to the rug. It was the perfect, silent accomplice for my theatrical reenactments of epic hunts. It is, I have decided, an unworthy companion, but an absolutely superb dramatic foil. It may stay. For now.
