Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has brought home a silent, fabric interloper named Madeline. It's a 16-inch soft doll modeled after some storybook character, complete with an offensively cheerful yellow hat and a blue coat. The most promising features, from my expert point of view, are the temptingly stringy red yarn hair and the fact that its clothes are supposedly removable—a challenge I may or may not accept. It also comes with a book, which is essentially a high-quality coaster for the human's drink, freeing them up from bothering me. While it lacks any crinkle, scent, or electronic motion, its sheer size makes it a potential wrestling partner. It could be a worthy adversary or, more likely, just another oddly-shaped, glorified cushion to be ignored after an initial sniff.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
I was in the middle of a rather important nap in my favorite sunbeam when the familiar sound of tearing cardboard violated the peace. My ears swiveled, but I refused to grant the human the dignity of an open eye. Then, a new object was placed on the floor in my periphery. I cracked an eyelid. It was a small, silent human with an unnervingly fixed smile and hair the color of cheap string. It wore a little blue coat and a yellow hat that offended my minimalist sensibilities. I closed my eye again. Another transparent attempt to win my affection with trinkets. A few minutes passed. The human had, as predicted, become engrossed in the flat, crinkly object that accompanied the doll. The house was quiet again, save for the gentle rustle of turning pages. My curiosity, that wretched traitor, began to gnaw at me. I stretched, extending each claw deliberately, and sauntered over to the newcomer. I gave its black shoe a thorough sniff. Nothing. I moved up to the coat. It was soft, I’ll grant it that. Almost as soft as my own magnificent fur. My investigation led me to the head. The red yarn hair practically vibrated with an invitation. I lifted a paw and gave it a tentative *pat-pat-pat*. It swung listlessly. Pathetic. This lack of response was an insult. Was this thing mocking me with its passivity? I would not stand for it. I decided the hat had to go. I hooked a claw into the felt and gave a sharp tug. It tilted, but held fast. A worthy challenge, then. I repositioned, bracing my hind paws, and gave a more serious yank. The hat came loose, tumbling to the floor. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Emboldened, I launched myself at the doll's midsection, wrapping all four paws around it. It was the perfect size. I fell to my side, the doll clutched in my grasp, and unleashed a flurry of bunny-kicks against its soft torso. It offered no resistance, which was precisely what made it a perfect sparring partner. There was no risk of retaliation, only the satisfying thud of my powerful hind legs against its plush form. After a minute of vigorous battle, I had asserted my dominance. The doll lay motionless, its hat discarded, its coat slightly askew, its yarn hair a tangled mess. I sat up, panting slightly, and began to groom my tuxedo front with an air of nonchalant triumph. This "Madeline," I decided, would not be a plaything. It would be my personal wrestling dummy and, once I had thoroughly exhausted myself, a surprisingly comfortable pillow. It could stay.
