Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured a small, cloth-and-plastic effigy of one of their own young. It comes from that 'Melissa & Doug' operation, known for inflicting wholesome, educational toys upon the unsuspecting, so my expectations are already subterranean. Its main body is soft, which offers a marginal possibility for a subordinate napping pillow, should my primary sunbeam be occupied. However, the limbs are cold, unyielding plastic, and the face is a mask of bland horror. The most egregious feature is its mechanical eyes, which open and close, tracking my movements with a soulless stare. Frankly, it's an insult to both my intelligence and my impeccable taste, a stationary and deeply unnerving lump that is unworthy of a proper pounce.
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
The thing arrived in one of those simple brown boxes the humans seem to favor lately, a vessel far more interesting than its contents. I had assumed, with my typical magnanimity, that the box was for me. I was mistaken. My human, whom I shall call The Warden for the purposes of this report, extracted the specimen and placed it on the living room rug. It was a "Jenna," according to her cooing. It looked less like a Jenna and more like a warning. It lay there, a silent sentinel in a pink romper. I approached with the caution of a cat entering a room with a running vacuum cleaner. A preliminary sniff test revealed nothing but the sterile scent of a factory and the faint, cloying sweetness of cheap plastic. Its limbs were rigid, its face a placid, vaguely judgmental mask. I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped its cheek. Cold. Unresponsive. I was about to dismiss it as yet another piece of useless household clutter when The Warden picked it up. As its posture shifted from horizontal to vertical, its eyes snapped open with an audible, unsettling *click*. I flattened myself to the floor, my gray tuxedo fur bristling. This was no mere object; it was a mimic. A sleeper agent. Its gaze followed me, unblinking, as The Warden set it down in a seated position. Its eyes remained open, twin pools of vacant blue plastic. I began a slow, deliberate patrol around its perimeter, my tail twitching like a metronome of doom. Was this a test? A new form of passive-aggressive torture? I stalked behind it, leaped onto the sofa for a superior vantage point, and observed. It did nothing. It simply sat, watching. Waiting. For what, I could not be sure. A moment of weakness? An unattended bowl of cream? Finally, my curiosity overwhelmed my tactical sense. I hopped down and, with a swift and decisive strike, batted its head. It toppled backward onto the rug with a soft thud. And with another *click*, the eyes slid shut. Ah. I see. A simple gravity-based mechanism. The threat was neutralized. It was not a spy, nor a monster. It was just... dull. An inanimate lump with a single, predictable party trick. I nudged its soft, pillowy torso with my nose. It was acceptably plush. Perhaps it wasn't a total loss. While it would never provide the thrill of the chase, it might serve as a passable headrest for my afternoon siesta. A verdict of "Benign but Boring" was entered into the official record.
