Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a plastic otter, an animal I hold in low regard for its insufferably cheerful demeanor. This "Polly Pocket" contraption—a brand I associate with things that vanish into the heating vent only to be mourned for days—is a tiny, self-contained world for miniature humans. The only feature of remote interest is the patch of soft, plush fur on its belly, which might offer a moment's tactile pleasure before I grow bored. The rest of it, a collection of minuscule sea creatures and dolls, seems designed expressly for the purpose of being batted under furniture, a service I am, of course, happy to provide. It is, in essence, a poorly-secured vault of things for me to lose.
Key Features
- The Polly Pocket Otter Aquarium compact features an adorable otter design with a soft, plush belly on the exterior and comes with micro Polly and Nicolas dolls.
- Kids can discover these fun activities: peg one of the dolls to the dolphin to swim, fold down the fish tank and slide for fun, ride on the seahorse see-saw that goes up and down and rotate the jellyfish tank.
- Compact features 12 accessories--some pieces have a Pop & Swap feature so kids can peg them into different areas of the compact for endless play possibilities.
- Play out aquarium-inspired adventures with cute animal figures including a dolphin, narwhal whale, seal, penguin, turtle and more!
- Compact also comes with a strap so kids can wear it as a wristlet to take on the go!
- Makes a great gift for ages 4 years old and up especially those who love water play, sea creatures and splashy fun!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing was left on the low table in the sunbeam, an obvious invitation. At first, I paid it no mind. It was brightly colored, plastic, and smelled of the factory it was born in—all hallmarks of a disappointing afternoon. My human, the large, clumsy one, had been cooing at it, opening its otter-shaped shell to reveal a garish blue-and-pink interior. From my vantage point on the armchair, I saw the tiny figures, the so-called "Pop & Swap" pieces. They were not toys; they were bait. I descended from my throne with practiced silence, my paws making no sound on the rug. I circled the otter compact, my tail giving a single, contemplative flick. It stared back with vapid, painted-on eyes. I nudged it with my nose. It was light, flimsy. I gave its plush belly a cursory sniff. Acceptable, but not as soft as my own fur, naturally. The true prize lay within. I could see them through the clear plastic parts: a tiny penguin, a minuscule narwhal, and two humanoids small enough to be a single gulp. My mission was not to "play." My mission was to liberate. My first attempts at entry were subtle. A delicate paw placed on the seam, a gentle push on the clasp. The contraption was stubbornly sealed, a testament to its cheap but effective child-proofing. A lesser cat would have given up, but my intellect is as refined as my palate. If finesse failed, physics would not. With a calculated shove, I pushed the entire otter aquarium off the edge of the table. It hit the hardwood floor with a loud clatter and popped open, a geyser of tiny plastic treasures erupting across the polished surface. Victory. The Nicolas doll skittered under the television stand, a problem for a future vacuum cleaner. The narwhal became my personal prize, and I nudged it into the hallowed ground beneath the sofa, where all my best things go. The otter shell lay discarded, its purpose fulfilled. This was not a playset; it was a challenge. A puzzle box containing smaller, more appropriate toys. While I have no interest in its intended function, its value as a high-yield dispenser of floor-clutter is undeniable. It has earned a temporary stay of indifference.
