Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have fundamentally misunderstood the concept of a "toy." They have presented me with a set of flat, flimsy squares featuring a loud-looking human in a hard hat and, I must admit, a rather dignified-looking orange cat. These so-called "decals" are apparently meant to be stuck onto things, offering zero potential for batting, pouncing, or satisfying shredding. While the depiction of a fellow feline is a minor point of interest, the complete lack of texture, movement, or any interactive quality makes this a profound waste of my time. It is not a toy; it is a two-dimensional insult. I would rather watch a dust bunny drift under the sofa.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Warm Rectangle, my favorite napping spot, had been violated. My human, in a fit of questionable aesthetic judgment, had slapped a garish yellow and blue picture onto its smooth, gray surface. I observed from the arm of the sofa, my tail twitching in irritation. The primary figure was a human with unnervingly round eyes and a helmet that screamed "I make poor life choices." But then, my gaze shifted. Tucked beside this buffoon was another creature. A cat. An orange tabby named Pilchard, according to the human’s cooing. He was trapped, flattened into a silent, glossy existence. The slogan printed below him read like a desperate plea: "Can we fix it?" A chill ran down my spine. Was this a message? A cry for help from this imprisoned feline? Of course, we could fix it. Or rather, *I* could. This was no longer about a tacky decoration; it was a rescue mission. I leaped from the sofa and landed silently beside the laptop, my eyes locked on the image of Pilchard. He looked so placid, so unaware of his papery prison. I extended a single, careful claw, aiming for the edge of the sticker. My plan was to delicately peel back this plastic prison and liberate my compatriot. But my claw skidded uselessly across the smooth, vinyl surface. There was no purchase, no seam to exploit. I tried again, a bit more forcefully this time, but the sticker was a fortress, seamlessly bonded to the machine. The human chortled, "Oh, Pete, you like the new sticker?" The fool. He didn't see the existential drama unfolding on his workspace. He saw a cat pawing at a picture, not a hero attempting a jailbreak. Defeated, I withdrew my paw. The mission was a failure. Pilchard was beyond my reach, doomed to spend his days as a silent, two-dimensional companion to a man in a hard hat. This "product" was not a toy; it was a tragedy. It was a window into a world I could not enter and a story of a soul I could not save. There was only one thing left to do. I curled up directly on top of the sticker, obscuring the sad scene from my sight and absorbing the gentle warmth of the laptop. If I couldn't save him, I could at least grant him the dignity of being a comfortable, heated bed. It was a grim, but necessary, service.
