Pete's Expert Summary
The Human has procured what appears to be a miniature, plastic effigy of a lesser celebrity from a bygone era, a creation of the Mattel monolith. Its primary function, from what I can gather, is to serve as a glorified grooming dummy, featuring an absurdly large quantity of synthetic, blonde hair. While the potential for batting at and possibly ingesting this fibrous mane presents a fleeting moment of interest, the doll's rigid, unyielding plastic form and vacant stare suggest it is otherwise useless. It possesses none of the satisfying heft of a proper mouse toy, nor the erratic flight of a feather wand. A curiosity, perhaps, but likely a monumental waste of my finely-honed predatory skills.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
I first observed the newcomer during the late afternoon, when the sunbeams were at their most opulent. The Human had it laid out on the rug, a sacrificial offering to the gods of boredom. It was a strange creature, all sharp plastic angles and a silent, painted-on smile. It did not move. It did not breathe. It simply stared into the middle distance, its long, yellow hair fanned out around it like a halo of dried grass. This was not prey. This was an idol, and the Human was its sole, devoted worshipper. The ritual began. The Human produced a tiny, toothed instrument and began dragging it through the idol’s mane, murmuring what I could only assume were sacred incantations. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail giving a slow, judgmental twitch. The ceremony was long and tedious. Twists were made, strange little plastic implements were applied. The idol remained impassive, its vacant expression unchanged by the elaborate grooming rite being performed upon it. My interest, already perilously low, began to wane. I could have been napping in that very sunbeam, but instead, I was forced to bear witness to this bizarre pageantry. Finally, the Human seemed satisfied. She propped the idol against a cushion, its hair now a cascade of stiff, unnatural-looking curls, and then committed the ultimate sin: she left the room. The idol sat there, a monument to wasted time. I leaped down, my paws silent on the rug, and approached the thing. I gave its head a tentative sniff. It smelled of nothing but factory dust and the Human’s hand lotion. I nudged its stiff, crunchy hair with my nose. It was unpleasant, like old straw. There was no life here, no sport. As I turned away in disgust, my paw brushed against one of the small, discarded ritual tools—a tiny plastic curler. It tumbled and skittered across the hardwood floor with a delightful, high-pitched rattle. Ah. Now *this* had potential. I pounced, sending it flying under the coffee table. The idol could keep its vacant stare and its crispy hair. The true treasure, as is so often the case, was the forgotten accessory. The idol was a dud, but its discarded trinket would serve as a perfectly adequate diversion for the next three minutes. A partial victory, I suppose.
