Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in her infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with this "Madeline Gift Set." From what my superior senses can deduce, it's a pile of paper products designed for a small, un-furry human. It consists of several hard-cornered blocks I'm told are "books"—excellent for pushing off shelves at 3 a.m., but otherwise useless—and some sheets of flimsy paper dolls. These dolls, I must concede, look delightfully fragile and perfectly shaped for batting into oblivion under the sofa. The main event, however, is clearly the cloth "Gift Book Bag," which appears to be a prime-grade, portable napping chamber. The rest of the affair seems like a profound waste of my attention, which could be better spent monitoring the dust bunnies in the hallway.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human approached me with that look on her face—the one that says, "I have spent money on something you will utterly ignore." She placed a bright yellow bag on the floor. "For you to inspect, Pete!" she chirped. I regarded the offering with a slow, deliberate blink. It smelled of ink and processed trees, an aroma that offends my sophisticated palate. On the side of the bag, a line of identical little girls stared out, their uniformity deeply unsettling to my chaotic soul. I was prepared to deliver my verdict via a pointed turn and a flick of my tail. She upended the bag, and the contents spilled onto the Persian rug, desecrating my favorite sunning spot. Six dense, colorful blocks—*books*—landed with a dull thud. Pathetic. But then, a collection of thinner sheets and paper figures fluttered out. My eyes narrowed. Paper dolls. A whole fragile army of them, with one little fellow in a black hat who looked particularly smug. "That's Pepito, the bad hat," the human explained. A bad hat, you say? An invitation, if I ever heard one. I ignored the books and the pointless sheets of stickers and focused my hunter's gaze on the flimsy paper villain. With the fluid grace only I possess, I crept forward. My first tap was a gentle test, a soft *pat* that sent Pepito wobbling. He fell. Victory was sweet. Emboldened, I gave him a proper smack with my paw, sending him skittering across the hardwood floor. A most satisfying chase ensued. I pounced, I batted, I conquered. The little girls in their yellow hats soon followed, none of them a match for my predatory prowess. The human sighed, but I was merely quality-testing the playability, a service for which I am not adequately compensated in treats. After the paper massacre was complete, my work was done. Or so I thought. My eyes fell upon the discarded vessel, the yellow tote bag. It lay there, an empty, crinkly promise. I circled it once, testing its structural integrity, then stepped inside. It was perfect. A fortress of solitude. A portable den. I curled into a tight, gray-and-white ball, resting my chin on the fabric edge and fixing my human with a look that said, "The bag is acceptable. You may dispose of the paper clutter." She could have her stories; I had found the true prize.
