Pete's Expert Summary
Let me be clear, for my staff member seems to have confused a chemical manufacturer with a company that makes plastic dolls. This is not a toy. This is a small bottle of what I can only describe as concentrated evil, a pungent liquid labeled "Zap-A-Gap." From my astute observations, this is a potent adhesive meant for repairs. While the idea of directly interacting with such a foul-smelling, potentially fur-matting substance is repulsive, I concede its potential. If it can resurrect Sir Reginald Featherbottom, my favorite wand toy who met an untimely end during a particularly vigorous pounce, then it might be a worthy tool for my clumsy human to wield. Otherwise, it is a complete waste of my attention.
Key Features
- Zap-A-Gap 2 oz
- The Only Total Adhesive System for All your Needs
- Multiple Sizes and Applications Available
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The tragedy was as swift as it was total. The porcelain mouse, a sleek, white effigy I enjoyed batting off the mantelpiece, had finally succumbed to gravity one too many times. It lay in three distinct, pathetic pieces on the hardwood floor. My world, for a moment, was gray. The staff member scooped up the remains with a sigh, and I assumed the mouse was destined for the great silver bin of no return, a fate that had befallen many a lesser amusement. I retired to my velvet cushion to mourn. Later, the human returned not with a replacement, but with the small, ominous bottle. The air was soon pierced by a sharp, acrid scent that made my nose twitch in disgust. I watched from a safe distance as they performed a delicate, if clumsy, surgery on the porcelain mouse. A single, clear drop was applied to the edge of a fragment. The human held the pieces together with a focused intensity I usually only see when the tuna can is being opened. I remained skeptical. No magic could put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Minutes passed in silent vigil. The chemical odor began to fade. The human released their grip, and the mouse… the mouse was whole. A faint, almost invisible seam was all that remained of its catastrophic injury. It was placed back on the mantelpiece, a stark white silhouette against the dark wood. I leaped up to investigate, my paws silent on the shelf. I circled the resurrected victim, sniffing cautiously. The offensive smell was gone, replaced by the familiar, cool scent of ceramic. I gave it a tentative pat with my paw. It wobbled but held firm. I batted it again, a little harder. Solid. The magic was real. This "Zap-A-Gap," this bottle of smelly necromancy, was not a plaything. It was something far more powerful. It was a restorer of worlds, a mender of cherished enemies. While I would never deign to touch the vile bottle itself, its power to preserve my kingdom of playthings had earned my profound, if grudging, respect. The porcelain mouse would be knocked to the floor again tomorrow, as is its purpose. And I now had faith it would rise again.
