Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe my opinion is required on this... this *thing*. It appears to be a small, plastic effigy of a human infant, produced by the Madame Alexander company—a name I associate with the dusty, unblinking figures on the high shelf that are Not For Pete. This one, however, is apparently designed for the single most horrifying activity imaginable: voluntary immersion in water. They call it a "Splash and Play Cutie," a name dripping with a level of irony I can appreciate. While the primary figure, with its vacant stare and garish wetsuit, is an affront to all sensible creatures, its accompanying artifacts show some promise. The miniature hooded towel could make a fine supplemental napping blanket, and the tiny yellow duck... well, some prey is simply classic for a reason.
Key Features
- Splash and Play Cuties are fully submersible and float!
- Hang up to drip dry after play
- Perfect for the beach or bathtime
- Dressed in fun colorful short wetsuits
- Includes wash mitt, hooded towel, floaty ring and duck toy.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The air in the Forbidden Grotto—what the human calls "the bathroom"—was thick with the ghosts of steam and strange, floral-scented soaps. I tread carefully across the cool tile, my paws leaving no trace. This was an archeological dig of sorts. The Great Deluge had recently occurred, a nightly ritual of terrifying noise and splashing from which my human emerges damp and weakened. It is in the aftermath that the best discoveries are made. And there, hanging from the shower knob by a loop on its head like some bizarre ornament, was the artifact. It was a golem in the shape of a small human, its plastic skin gleaming under the vanity lights. It wore a pink carapace, unnaturally smooth, and its painted-on eyes stared into the middle distance, having clearly witnessed horrors I could only imagine. It was a survivor of the Deluge. I circled the porcelain basin beneath it, sniffing the air. This was no mere toy. This was a warning. A silent, dripping testament to the chaos of water. Near the basin lay the rest of its strange gear: a miniature ring for floating upon the treacherous depths, a tiny swatch of fabric for drying, and a small, yellow fowl. My initial assessment was one of profound disturbance. The creature itself was an idol to a wet and miserable god, and I wanted nothing to do with it. But my eyes kept flicking back to the little duck. It sat apart from the other items, a beacon of cheerful yellow in a landscape of damp tile and unsettling pastels. Was it a captive? A sacrifice? A subordinate to the pink-clad golem? I decided it was a rescue mission. With a deft flick of my paw, I hooked the duck and sent it skittering across the floor, away from the scene of the crime. I pounced, batting it under the vanity, its plastic form a satisfying weight against my paws. The primary doll can hang there and drip forever, a monument to the humans' baffling obsession with water. It is a failure as an object of play. But this duck? This duck I have liberated from its damp prison. This duck is a worthy trophy. This duck understands the value of being batted under a piece of furniture until a nap is required. Verdict: The duck is a resounding success. The rest is irrelevant.
