Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought a strange new creature into my domain. From what I can gather, this "Baby Born Emma" is a practice human for the smaller, louder human to fuss over. It's a large, disconcertingly lifelike doll that mimics the most tedious functions of a real infant—crying, eating, and other unspeakable acts—all without the need for batteries, which is a mark of truly insidious engineering. Its "soft-touch" body might offer a novel texture for kneading, but its primary function seems to be staring blankly into space. The true value, if any, lies in its collection of small, plastic accessories, which seem perfectly sized for batting into the dark voids beneath the furniture. The doll itself is likely a waste of perfectly good sunbeam space.
Key Features
- Toys
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived in a large, promisingly corrugated box. The scent of fresh cardboard filled my refined nostrils, and I supervised the human's clumsy unboxing with great interest. But what she pulled from the tissue paper was not a new napping blanket or a feather-festooned wand. It was an imposter. A silent, plastic homunculus with glassy eyes that seemed to track my every move. The small human shrieked with delight, naming it "Emma." I, however, knew its true name: The Watcher. It was an effigy of everything I disdained—neediness without the decency to be fluffy and alive. For days, The Watcher was a silent, ominous presence. I'd find it lolling on my favorite armchair, its head cocked at an unnatural angle. It would be propped against my food dish, a silent judgment on my dining etiquette. The small human would jam a "magic dummy" into its face, and its eyelids would snap shut with a faint click, only to spring open again when the plug was removed. It was a grotesque pantomime of life, and I became convinced it was a spy sent to document my napping schedule and treat-cajoling techniques. It was studying me, learning my weaknesses, perhaps in preparation for a coup. The confrontation came in the deep of night. I was on my customary patrol of the shadowy hallways when I saw it, silhouetted by a sliver of moonlight, sitting upright in the middle of the rug. A clear territorial challenge. My tail twitched. I flattened myself to the floor, a sleek gray shadow against the dark wood, and crept forward. I circled it once, twice. It smelled of nothing but sterile plastic and the faint, sweet scent of the small human's hands. There was no life, no fear, no soul behind those vacant eyes. This was not an adversary. It was an object. My fear curdled into disdain, and then, into a flash of inspiration. I stood on my hind legs, placed my forepaws gently on its round head, and gave it a firm shove. It toppled backward with a hollow *thump*, its gaze still fixed on the ceiling. A wave of profound satisfaction washed over me. This thing wasn't a threat; it was a resource. Its tiny plate and spoon are now permanent residents of the lost kingdom under the stove. The doll itself has proven to be a surprisingly effective back-scratcher. It remains a silent, unnerving presence in my home, but it has learned its place. It watches, but I rule.
