Pete's Expert Summary
My human has once again squandered resources on what they call "collectibles." This time, it's a set of two stylized, oversized-headed effigies of some garish purple beast from their childhood myths, a so-called "Funko Pop!" of "Barney." They are imprisoned within clear-fronted cells, their sole purpose to be stared at, a concept utterly foreign and insulting to any creature of action. While the sharp corners of the packaging might offer a moment's satisfaction for a chin scratch, the figures themselves are inert plastic monuments to poor judgment. They possess zero pounce-ability, no tantalizing scent, and will undoubtedly just gather dust, a testament to the strange and unproductive hobbies of my bipedal staff.
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A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it often does, with the human making cooing noises at a cardboard box. I watched from my perch on the sofa arm, tail giving a slow, judgmental thump-thump-thump against the upholstery. With far too much reverence, they slid two smaller boxes out, each containing a purple idol with a vacant, black-eyed stare. One held a smaller, yellow creature. The human placed them on the mantelpiece, a space usually reserved for things they wished to keep safe from my gravitational experiments. They called them "Barney" and "BJ," whispering the names like incantations. For days, I observed the new gods of the mantel. They did nothing. They did not wiggle, they did not flash, they did not emit the crinkling sound that signals a worthy opponent. Yet, my human would pause, gaze up at them, and smile. A strange, quiet cult had formed in my living room, and I, its true deity, was being ignored. Their power, I surmised, must be subtle. A psychic influence, perhaps? A low-frequency hum undetectable to my superior ears? I had to investigate. Under the silver light of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, I made my move. A silent leap from the floor to the chair, then a tense, muscle-coiled spring to the mantelpiece itself. I landed without a sound, a gray ghost in the night. I approached the primary purple idol. I sniffed its plastic prison. Nothing. I gave the box a gentle nudge with my nose. It slid a millimeter. No divine retribution, no angry roar. I nudged it again, harder this time, pushing it right to the edge of the mantel. It teetered there, a silent challenge to the universe. And still, nothing. My verdict was clear. These were false idols, hollow and powerless. I yawned, hopped down, and returned to my nap, leaving the purple charlatan to contemplate its own precarious and utterly boring existence. It wasn't even worth the effort to knock over.
