Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired a training uniform for a miniature version of my arch-nemesis, the Veterinarian. This "role play set" by Melissa & Doug is clearly designed to indoctrinate a small, impressionable human into a life of poking, prodding, and taking my temperature at the most inconvenient times. It comes with a full arsenal of plastic implements of minor terror: a stethoscope that makes its own noises (how droll), a syringe, a thermometer, and other such nonsense, all sized for a creature whose primary skills are spilling juice and screaming. The included plush dog is a flimsy decoy; I know perfectly well who the real target of this "practice" will be. While the brand name suggests a certain durability in these tools of torment, the entire concept is an affront to my dignity and a potential disruption to my napping schedule.
Key Features
- Age: Sized for 3-6 Years
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box was opened not by my usual provider of sustenance and chin scratches, but by the smaller, more chaotic human she calls "Lily." From my vantage point atop the linen cabinet, I watched as Lily donned a ridiculously small blue jacket and a mask, transforming into a pint-sized agent of medical tyranny. She had a name tag, but her crayon scrawl was illegible. I decided to call her "The Intern." Her first patient was the plush dog, a pitiful thing with vacant button eyes. The Intern subjected it to a barrage of tests, listening to its fluff-filled heart with the sound-effect stethoscope and attempting to administer a shot with the plastic syringe. It was all very dramatic, and very boring. I must have dozed off, lulled into a false sense of security by the repetitive squeak of the reflex hammer against the dog's fabric head. I awoke to a strange sensation. The Intern was standing over me, her face a mask of intense concentration, the little light-up otoscope from her kit shining directly into my ear. The audacity. I didn't flinch. I am Pete, after all. I simply gave her a slow, unimpressed blink. This was not the V-E-T's office; this was my living room, and she had no jurisdiction here. Undeterred, she moved on to the stethoscope, pressing the cold plastic disc against my chest. The pre-recorded *lub-dub, lub-dub* was an insult to my own perfectly rhythmic, supremely relaxed heartbeat. I refused to grant her the satisfaction of a purr. I simply stared into the middle distance, contemplating the sheer pointlessness of it all. She tried the syringe next, gently tapping it against my shoulder. I twitched my ear, not in fear, but in pure, unadulterated annoyance. This was amateur hour. Finally, The Intern seemed to run out of procedures. She looked at me, then at her kit, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. I had won. I had outlasted her medical curiosity through sheer, immovable apathy. She sighed, packed her little tools away, and went to find a juice box. My final verdict? The product itself is a nuisance. However, its complete inability to elicit any genuine reaction from a superior creature such as myself makes it a rather effective tool for teaching small humans a valuable lesson in futility. It is, in its own way, a worthy adversary for a lazy afternoon. I will allow it to remain. For now.
