Pete's Expert Summary
My human has, once again, procured a collection of miniature plastic junk meant to simulate their own chaotic existence. This "Style Collection" appears to be a pink tote bag—the only truly promising feature, as it looks like a decent nap-sized vessel—filled with non-functional versions of the noisy things she carries. There's a phone that makes sounds, which is an immediate red flag for interrupting my slumber, and a clicky key fob, which holds some minor promise for batting. The rest is a smattering of tiny, losable objects like a fake wallet and sunglasses. Honestly, it seems like a lot of clutter for one potentially good nap spot, but I suppose the smaller bits could make for a decent game of floor hockey if I'm feeling generous.
Key Features
- With a press of the buttons, the key fob flips open and clicks
- Modern play headphones store into play phone case
- Phone features camera flash light and sound - Wallet holds play money and credit card
- Includes 1 Tote, 1 Play Water Bottle, 1 Play Protein Bar, 1 Pair of Sunglasses, 1 Play Click and Flip Key Fob, 1 Play Phone w/ Play Ear Buds, 1 Play Wallet with 8 Pieces of Play Money, 1 Play Credit Card, 1 Play Lipgloss with Applicator, 1 Play Makeup Compact with Applicator and 1 Play Hand Sanitizer
- Requires 3 LR44 Button Cell Alkaline Batteries (Included) - Suggested for ages 3 years and above
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The case arrived on a Tuesday. The human called it a "Deluxe Tote Bag," but I knew a conspiracy when I saw one. It was a soft-sided, pink briefcase, clearly a transport unit for some clandestine operation. I, Detective Pete, waited until the human was distracted by her glowing rectangle before beginning my investigation of the contents. The mission, should I choose to accept it: uncover the secrets of the "Princess Style Collection." My first piece of evidence was the key fob. A flick of my paw and—*CLICK*—a plastic key snapped out. Satisfying. I nudged it with my nose. It smelled of nothing but deceit and cheap plastic. What did it unlock? A tiny, imaginary door to nowhere? A diary filled with saccharine nonsense? I deduced it was a signaling device. One click for "the coast is clear," two clicks for "bring me tuna." I pocketed it, metaphorically speaking, by batting it under the armoire for later analysis. Next, the primary listening device: the so-called "phone." It was inert until my paw pad pressed the main button. A flash of light! A series of tinny, offensive chimes! I recoiled. A pathetic attempt at a communication scrambler, clearly. It was designed to disorient, to distract from the true objective. I gave it a solid whack, sending it skittering across the hardwood. The flimsy "ear buds" that accompanied it were merely tangled garroting wire, unsuitable for a creature of my refined sensibilities. The wallet contained fraudulent currency and a single, useless card. Forgeries, the lot of them. After a thorough examination of the other artifacts—a compact for applying disguises, a tube of shiny mouth-paint, a vial of scentless sanitizer—I reached my conclusion. This was not a toy. It was a starter kit for an exceptionally clumsy and ill-equipped secret agent. The human was clearly in over her head. While the mission's objective remained murky, the equipment was a failure. However, my investigation was not a total loss. The pink evidence bag, once emptied of its ridiculous contents, proved to be an exceptional observation post, perfectly contoured to my form. Case closed. The spy can have her plastic trinkets; I'm keeping the hideout.
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