Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has presented me with what they call a Matchbox Ferry Port. It appears to be a large, plastic landscape designed for the miniature metal beasts they call "cars." The entire contraption is meant for a small human to push a single Land Rover around, which in turn raises a bridge, opens a gate, and makes a tiny plastic security guard pop out of a booth. While the potential for batting that little car off the elevated ferry deck has a certain tactical appeal, the severe lack of feathers, crinkle sounds, or catnip-infusion suggests this is merely an elaborate, static obstacle that will do little more than clutter up a perfectly good patch of sun on the floor.
Key Features
- This Matchbox Action Drivers Ferry Port Playset features car- and kid-activated details that will inspire boat loads of creative adventures
- Raise the bridge as the ferry boat wheels into port, moving the gate to stop oncoming traffic; When the bridge is lowered, the gate retreats, allowing cars to pass
- Drive to the security gate, where the car-activated guard emerges, greeting guests and clearing them for boarding
- With the Matchbox Ferry Port playset, kids can transport their cars to different terminals and disembark for cool adventures
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human called it a "ferry port," but my superior feline intellect knew it for what it truly was: an enemy fortress. It was deployed in the middle of my domain, a gray and blue plastic blight on the warm hardwood. I observed from the safety of the sofa arm, my tail-tip twitching a steady rhythm of disdain. It was a complex structure with ramparts, a drawbridge, and a wheeled amphibious assault vehicle—the "ferry," they called it. The mission, as I defined it in that moment, was clear: infiltrate, disrupt, and neutralize their primary mobile asset, the little green Land Rover. My first reconnaissance patrol was conducted under the guise of casual indifference. I stretched, yawned, and sauntered over, pretending to be interested in a dust bunny near the base. The human, a giant, unpredictable variable in this equation, initiated the first sequence. They rolled the green vehicle up a ramp, causing a bridge to lower and a gate to retract. My eyes narrowed. Then, as the car approached a small booth, a tiny plastic figure in a uniform popped out. A sentry. He was immediately marked as a secondary target. Once the giant was sufficiently distracted by the glowing rectangle in their lap, Operation Silent Pounce commenced. I leaped silently onto the ferry deck, my soft paws making no sound on the plastic. The green Land Rover sat there, abandoned and vulnerable. It was smaller than a mouse, but its strategic importance was undeniable. There was no thrill of the hunt, only the cold, hard calculus of disruption. With a single, expertly placed tap of my paw, I sent the vehicle skittering over the edge. It tumbled through the air in a pathetic arc before clattering onto the floorboards below. Mission accomplished. I hopped down, sniffing the vanquished "car" with an air of finality. It was hard, scentless, and utterly uninteresting now that its movement was neutralized. The fortress itself was now just a hollow shell, an empty monument to flawed human engineering. My verdict is this: the structure serves as an acceptable, if somewhat garish, observation platform from which to launch surgical strikes. The true, albeit fleeting, entertainment is the projectile it houses. As for the little plastic guard, still standing his post? I’ll be back for him. Every masterpiece requires a finishing touch.
