Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what they call "Jenna," a small, soft effigy of their own kind from the Melissa & Doug conglomerate, a company I know specializes in durable goods for the loud, small humans. Its primary appeal, I surmise, is its plush torso, which seems adequately sized for a proper bunny-kicking session. The smooth, plastic-like limbs are less interesting, though perhaps they offer a satisfying texture for a tentative claw. However, its most disturbing feature is its mechanical eyes that open and close, suggesting a level of awareness I find deeply unsettling in an inanimate object. It could be a worthy adversary and potential napping companion, or merely a silent, creepy observer destined to gather dust. The jury is still out, but my claws are ready to deliberate.
Key Features
- Sweet baby cheeks and soft, cuddly body inspire kids for hours of pretend play
- Wipe-clean arms and legs
- Removable smocked romper and matching cap
- Eyes open and close, and able to suck thumb or pacifier; this product ships in its own special e-commerce packaging intended to be easier to open and reduce waste (curbside recyclable)
- Makes a great gift for toddlers and preschoolers, ages 18 months to 5, for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived not in a garish, noisy box, but a discreet brown wrapper, the kind used for clandestine deliveries. My human, with their usual lack of subtlety, tore it open and placed the operative on my rug. It stared at me. I stared back. This was "Jenna," an infiltrator with a soft body and the cold, unblinking gaze of a seasoned spy. Its mission was unknown, but its presence was an immediate threat to the established order of the household—namely, my unchallenged reign over all comfortable surfaces. I began my surveillance at 0200 hours, under the pale glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. The operative lay motionless on the floor where the human had left it. I crept closer, my tuxedo-patterned fur a perfect camouflage in the shadows. Its most unnerving feature was its ocular system. The eyes, a glassy, vacant blue, would snap shut the moment its body was horizontal. A feigned slumber. A classic espionage tactic I've seen in lesser creatures, like possums. When upright, they stared, forever watchful. I circled it, sniffing for weaknesses. The torso was yielding, but the limbs were smooth and cold, like porcelain. They smelled of nothing. A true professional. My first move was to disable its headgear—a flimsy pink cap, which I batted clean off its head and under the sofa. A small victory. Next, I tested its defenses. A swift pat to the face produced a hollow sound and a slight wobble. Its arms and legs offered no purchase for my teeth. This confirmed my theory: the soft body was its core, its vulnerable command center. I decided a direct confrontation was necessary to extract whatever information it was hiding. Was it here to monitor my napping schedule? To report on the quality of my food? I initiated the final protocol: The Abdominal Assault. Pinning the operative’s soft torso with my forepaws, I unleashed a flurry of hind-leg kicks, the ultimate expression of feline dominance. The soft body absorbed the blows beautifully, offering just the right amount of resistance without any annoying squeaks or alarms. I wrestled it, flipped it, and subjected its removable romper to significant structural stress. After a vigorous ten-second battle, the operative was subdued, face down on the carpet, its trick eyes forced shut. It offered no further resistance. My work was done. The threat was neutralized, its secrets (or lack thereof) secured. It now serves as a rather plush victory monument, a soft reminder that no silent intruder can escape my vigilance. A worthy, if short-lived, opponent.
