Pete's Expert Summary
So, the Human has presented me with a 'Madeline' doll, an effigy of a small, human-like creature in a garish yellow hat. The manufacturer is a mysterious 'Unknown,' which is to say, it lacks a respectable pedigree. I will concede that its purported 'super soft' texture is a baseline requirement for anything allowed to touch my magnificent tuxedoed coat. At fourteen inches, it is large enough to serve as a worthy adversary for a bout of hind-paw disemboweling practice, and the yarn hair might have some novel chew-feel. However, its utter lack of electronic chirps, nip, or even a simple feather suggests it is a profoundly lazy offering. It is, in essence, a fluffy pillow with a face, and its value will be determined entirely by how comfortable it is to nap upon after I've established dominance.
Key Features
- New Madeline doll Plush 14" Tall Super soft
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Human placed the thing on the ottoman, my ottoman, and stepped back with that hopeful, slightly vacant expression she gets when she's trying to impress me. My initial assessment was bleak. It was a silent, two-legged creature with unnerving black dots for eyes and a ghastly, stitched-on smile. Its blue coat was offensively bright, and the yellow hat was a crime against aesthetics. It just sat there, propped up, radiating a profound and unsettling stillness. I circled it twice, my tail twitching in irritation. This wasn't a toy. This was an audience. A silent, judging interloper in my kingdom. For a full day, I treated it as a piece of avant-garde sculpture I did not ask for. I would nap pointedly on the other side of the room, occasionally opening one eye to see if it had moved. It never did. That smile, that vacant stare. What did it know? What had it seen? I imagined it was a spy for the squirrel syndicate, sent to observe my napping schedules and report on the structural weaknesses of the window screens. The yarn hair, a chaotic red tangle, looked flammable. I made a mental note of this. The turning point came during the Great Afternoon Sunbeam Incident. The prime patch of warmth, my birthright, had fallen directly upon the ottoman, but the doll was occupying the epicenter. An act of war. I leaped up, prepared to shove the intruder into the shadowy abyss of the floor. As my head made contact with its torso to begin the push, however, I paused. The plush fabric was, as advertised, remarkably soft. It yielded under my pressure with a gentle sigh of poly-fill. It wasn't resisting. It was accommodating. I reassessed the situation. This was not a spy. It was not a rival. It was a silent, absurdly dressed butler. I nudged it again, not with aggression, but with purpose. It shifted perfectly, creating a custom-formed bolster against which I could recline. I settled in, my gray fur a stark, sophisticated contrast to its primary-colored nonsense. My head rested against its side, propped at a sublime angle by the brim of its foolish hat. The doll said nothing. It asked for nothing. It simply absorbed the sun's warmth and served as a silent, comfortable testament to my supreme authority. It is, I have decided, the finest sort of subordinate: useful, soft, and utterly devoid of ambition. It may stay.
