Pete's Expert Summary
Ah, yes. The human has presented me with another offering from the Fisher-Price clan, a brand known for its garishly colored plastic lumps intended for the least discerning members of the household. This appears to be a collection of six stubby humanoids in ridiculous costumes, what they call "Super Friends." Frankly, they look neither super nor particularly friendly. Their primary feature seems to be their size, allegedly "just right for small hands," which I suppose also means "just right for being batted under the heaviest piece of furniture in the house." While their lack of fuzzy textures or intriguing smells is an immediate mark against them, the one in the dark bat costume has a certain grim appeal. The rest are an assault on the eyes. This is likely a waste of my time unless one of them proves to have superior skittering properties across the hardwood floor.
Key Features
- Little People figure set featuring 6 DC Super Heroes for toddler-friendly, crime-fighting pretend play
- Includes Batman, Superman, The Flash, Aquaman, Wonder Woman, and Batgirl
- Figures sized just right for small hands to grasp & move, helping to strengthen fine motor skills
- Bring these figures to any Little People playset for more action-Packed, toddler-friendly pretend play (Playsets sold separately and subject to availability.)
- Encourages imaginative play and storytelling for toddlers and preschool kids ages 18 months to 5 years old
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The conclave was set upon the Great Beige Plain, also known as the living room rug. Six of them, standing in a line, their painted-on smiles a silent mockery of my sophisticated existence. My human had chirped their names—"Batman," "Superman," and other such nonsense—before leaving them to their fate. I, Pete, High Sovereign of this Domain, approached from my observation post on the arm of the sofa, my descent a ripple of silent gray fur. My task: to assess these new arrivals and determine their purpose, if any. First, I circled the perimeter, my white-tipped tail an antenna for atmospheric disturbance. They did not move. They did not react. They simply stood, chunky and immobile. My initial inspection was of the one called Aquaman. I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped its oversized head. It fell with a dull, plastic *thud*. No bounce. No satisfying slide. A failure. I moved on to The Flash, a crimson-clad buffoon. One swift pat sent him skidding a pathetic foot before coming to a halt. Better, but still amateurish. I was about to dismiss the entire cohort as another failed tribute when a glint of sunlight from the window caught the cape of the one they called Superman. An idea, brilliant and devious, sparked in my mind. This was not a test of their individual merit, but a test of their potential as a collective obstacle course. Ignoring them as toys, I began to see them as something more: decorative pawns in a grander game. I executed a perfect, low-to-the-ground sprint, weaving between Batgirl and Wonder Woman with the grace of a shadow. I treated them as slalom poles, a test of my own agility. The silent judgment of their plastic eyes only spurred me on. I practiced my pounce, leaping clean over the entire lineup from a standing start, landing without a sound on the other side. They were not toys. They were a training facility. Their very uselessness as objects of play was, in fact, their greatest strength. They required me to invent my own game, to impose my own narrative upon their static forms. They were the silent, stoic audience and the unmoving obstacles for the true work of art: my own magnificent movement. As I lay panting softly under the coffee table, watching them from the shadows, I delivered my verdict. They were unworthy of being prey, but as tools for honing my own perfection? Acceptable. They could stay. For now.
