Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a small, aggressively pink plastic box, claiming it's a "Dreamhouse." From my superior vantage point, it appears to be a miniature prison for tiny, plastic humanoids and one woefully undetailed canine figure. The appeal, I suppose, lies in the sheer number of minuscule components—eleven accessories, they say—which are perfectly sized for batting under the heaviest and most inaccessible furniture. The moving parts, an "elevator" and a "slide," might offer a moment of mechanical intrigue, but let's be realistic. This isn't a laser dot or a fresh can of tuna. Its primary value is as a long-term project: the slow, methodical disappearance of every single piece, providing me with fleeting moments of hunting satisfaction and the human with hours of confused searching. A tolerable diversion, but it will never replace a quality nap in a sunbeam.
Key Features
- Polly Pocket doll goes to Barbie-land -- this partnership compact captures the Barbie Dreamhouse in adorable micro form for play or display!
- Barbie doll goes tiny with Polly in this compact playset that comes with Barbie, Brooklyn, and a friend dolls, 1 Taffy dog, and 11 accessories, including a wheelchair, for storytelling fun.
- The compact opens to reveal 3 stories inside the iconic Barbie Dreamhouse, plus outdoor play space!
- Fold the roof of the dollhouse open to reveal a slide, then race down and splash into the pool -- Taffy loves it, too!
- The wheelchair accessible elevator is so much fun and takes dolls with a simple lift from floor to floor where there's so much to do!
- Furniture and storytelling pieces let imaginations go crazy so kids can tell stories and collectors can create cool displays!
- Makes a great gift for ages 4 years old and up, especially those who love both Polly Pocket and Barbie dolls.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Offering was placed on the Persian rug, a gaudy pink shell amidst a sea of tasteful burgundy. I observed from a distance, tail giving a slow, judgmental sweep. My human made cooing noises and fumbled with a latch. With a plastic *clack*, the thing opened, revealing a garish, tiered world frozen in time. It smelled of a factory and desperation. I was, to put it mildly, unimpressed. This was not prey. This was not food. This was static. I crept closer, my pristine white paws silent on the rug. My gaze fell upon the inhabitants. Tiny, rigid dolls, and one particularly sad-looking dog figure named "Taffy." An affront to all self-respecting animals. With the deliberate, surgical precision of a seasoned predator, I extended a single claw and nudged the little dog. It skittered across the molded floor. A faint glimmer of interest sparked within me. Then I discovered the vertical conveyance—the "elevator." A gentle push of my nose sent the platform rising. I was a god. A furry, gray god of this pocket dimension. I nudged Taffy onto the platform and sent him to the top floor, then, with a swat born of pure scientific curiosity, sent him careening down the slide and into the empty, soulless basin they called a "pool." The silence was deafening, but in my mind, it was a glorious splash. The game changed. This was no longer about simple batting. It was about narrative. I became a director of chaos. One of the dolls, the one in the wheelchair, became the tragic hero. I would place her at the precipice of the slide, a cliffhanger of my own making. Could she make the jump? No. A gentle tap of my paw sent the chair tumbling, a miniature avalanche of my own creation. The dolls were my actors, the house my stage. I was orchestrating a silent, plastic drama of peril and narrow escapes. I spent a full twenty minutes meticulously arranging all the tiny furniture on the roof, only to sweep it all off with one magnificent flick of my tail. It was art. Eventually, the novelty wore thin, as all novelties do. I had explored the creative and destructive potential of this tiny world. The dolls were scattered, Taffy was lost somewhere behind a curtain, and the wheelchair was wedged under the television stand, a mystery for another day. I gave a final, dismissive sniff at the disheveled Dreamhouse. It had served its purpose. It was not a toy for a cat to *play* with, but a world for a cat to *rule*. Satisfied with my brief reign, I turned, stretched languidly, and retired to the sofa for a well-deserved nap, leaving the miniature disaster zone as a testament to my fleeting, but absolute, power. It was, I concluded, a worthy tribute.
