Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has presented me with this... thing. It appears to be a small, plush effigy of a lesser avian species, grotesquely merged with a miniature human infant. They call it "Tilly the Turkey," a Cabbage Patch... whatever. Its primary purpose, as far as my superior intellect can discern, is to be clutched by tiny, sticky human hands. The supposed "snuggly onesie" might offer a moment of textural interest for a vigorous bunny-kicking session, and the adjustable hood is a prime target for de-threading. However, the manufacturer, in an act of pure olfactory terrorism, has infused it with "baby powder scent." This is an unforgivable flaw. Why would I, a creature of refined taste and impeccable grooming, sully my magnificent tuxedo coat with the cloying aroma of a chemical dust storm? It's a hard pass. The most engaging feature will undoubtedly be the crinkly plastic bag it arrives in, which will be its sole contribution to this household before it's relegated to the dust-bunny graveyard under the sofa.
Key Features
- Complete your collection of Cabbage Patch Cuties by adopting Tilly the Turkey baby doll!
- So cute, you'll want to gobble her up! Each Cabbage Patch Cutie features a snuggly onesie with adjustable hood, and can really suck its thumb!
- Cutie baby dolls come with the traditional signature baby powder scent that Cabbage Patch Kid fans know and love!
- Take the Oath of Adoption! Cabbage Patch Kid Cuties are numbered for collectability and make a great toy gift for boys and girls who love Cabbage Patch Kids! Perfect for Christmas stocking stuffers, Birthdays and more!
- Officially licensed Cabbage Patch Kids merchandise. Each Measures approximately 9" tall. Comes in sealed polybag packaging with official Cabbage Patch tag.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The offering was placed on the sun-drenched patch of rug I had spent the better part of the morning warming to the precise temperature for optimal napping. I regarded it with a level of suspicion usually reserved for the vacuum cleaner's ominous rumblings. It was a doll, a turkey-child hybrid, and it reeked. Not of anything interesting like week-old tuna or the delightful funk of my human's worn sock, but of a cloying, powdery sweetness that tickled the back of my throat. I gave my human a withering glance, a silent reprimand for this fragrant assault, before pointedly turning my back on the intruder and curling into a tight, dignified ball at the far edge of the sunbeam. Sleep did not come easily. The artificial scent crept into my dreams, twisting the familiar landscape of my subconscious. I was no longer in my living room but adrift in a sterile, white void. From the pearlescent mist, they emerged. An army of them. Hundreds of identical turkey-babies, their plastic faces vacant, their bodies swaddled in those unnervingly soft onesies. They waddled in unison, a silent, fluffy tide, each one with its thumb jammed into its mouth. The air was thick with the powder scent, so dense I could feel it coating my whiskers. One of them, the one my human called Tilly, detached from the herd and wobbled toward me. It didn't want to be batted or chased. It extended a plastic hand, not for play, but for a solemn handshake. A voice, not of this world, echoed in the white space: *Take the Oath. Adopt us. Collect us all.* I awoke with a startled yowl, my gray fur standing on end. My heart hammered against my ribs. Across the rug, Tilly the Turkey sat, its painted eyes seeming to watch me, its thumb forever poised at its lips. The sweet scent now felt like a threat, a promise of that white, orderly, thumb-sucking nightmare. This was no mere toy. It was a recruiting agent for a cult of plush docility, an idol of bland conformity. I refused to be adopted, refused to be collected. With a low hiss, I gave the doll one swift, powerful smack with my paw, sending it skidding into the dark abyss under the armchair. I then retreated to the highest point of the cat tower, a sentinel watching over my kingdom. From there, I would monitor the situation, ensuring the powdery horror remained in its dusty prison. Some toys are for playing. This one was for banishing.
