Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented a collection of plastic effigies from a brand called Fisher-Price. Apparently, these are "Farm Animal Friends" meant for tiny, sticky-fingered humans. The set includes eight static, unblinking creatures, from a stout cow to a ridiculously long-necked llama. Their primary "feature" seems to be their size, allegedly perfect for "small hands," which I suppose translates to being a tolerable weight for a well-aimed paw-swipe off the edge of the coffee table. While they lack the fundamental requirements of a proper toy—no feathers, no catnip, no enticing rustle—their sheer variety of shapes and their potential for creating strategic floor clutter might offer a brief, fleeting moment of amusement before I return to the truly important business of a sunbeam nap.
Key Features
- Figure set featuring 8 Little People farm animal friends
- Includes llama, chicken, cow, goat, horse, pig, sheep and dog figures
- Figures sized just right for small hands to grasp and move, helping to strengthen fine motor skills
- Bring these figures to the Little People Caring for Animals Farm playset for more "wild" fun! (Playset sold separately and subject to availability.)
- Encourages imaginative play and storytelling for toddlers and preschool kids ages 1-5 years
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with the sort of crinkling fanfare that usually heralds something promising—a new blanket, perhaps, or a shipment of my preferred salmon pâté. Instead, my human tipped out a silent, brightly colored delegation onto the living room rug. Eight plastic figures, frozen mid-stride. A cow, a pig, a horse, and their lesser barnyard associates. I watched from my perch on the arm of the chair, tail giving a slow, judgmental thump-thump-thump against the upholstery. This was an insult. They didn't move. They didn't squeak. They were a silent, plastic mockery of the vibrant prey I stalk in my dreams. I descended with the weary sigh of a king forced to inspect the peasant's harvest. I circled the assembly, my gray tuxedo immaculate against the garish display. The dog figure was an affront, a pale imitation of the noisy brute next door. The chicken was pathetically small, an easy first victim. But then my eyes fell upon the llama. It stood taller than the others, its painted-on smile a mask of serene arrogance. A challenge. This was not a random assortment of toys. This was a crew, a gang, and the llama was clearly their smug, long-necked leader. My initial plan was simple: a swift swat to send the leader tumbling. But as my paw hovered, a more sophisticated idea bloomed in my brilliant mind. This would not be a brutish attack; it would be a story of my own making. I nudged the horse with my nose, sending it sliding across the hardwood to stand "guard" by the door. The sheep and the goat were positioned as unwitting lookouts near the television stand. I was no longer a cat batting at plastic; I was a director, a shadowy force manipulating the fates of these simpletons. The stage was the rug, the actors were this silent menagerie, and the plot was entirely mine. One by one, I isolated the members of the llama's crew, using a delicate paw to tip them over into the "abyss" of the thicker shag carpet. Finally, only the llama remained, its plastic smile unwavering. I approached slowly, savoring the moment. I gave it a long, hard stare, then delivered a single, precise tap to its base. It fell with a soft, unsatisfying clatter. The drama was over. I surveyed my work—the scattered figures, the toppled leader—and let out a short, clipped "mrrrow" of approval. It was a crude medium, to be sure, but for an artist of my caliber, even these lumps of plastic could be molded into a satisfying narrative. They would be permitted to stay, as props for my next masterpiece.
