Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe that my life's ambition is to play with dolls designed for their own clumsy, loud offspring. This offering, from a brand called "Fisher-Price," is a small plastic man named Reed Vitals. He is apparently a "Rescue Hero," though the only thing he'll be rescuing is dust bunnies from under the couch. He comes with a few equally plastic accessories: a grabby claw thing, a tiny box with a screen, and a cast for his arm. While the prospect of batting this miniature effigy off the highest point of my cat tower holds some appeal, the small, lose-able pieces are clearly a choking hazard for the intellectually challenged, and a nuisance for a sophisticate such as myself who will have to watch the human search for them for twenty minutes. It smells of disappointment and a distribution center.
Key Features
- Reed Vitals is one of the newest cadets on the Rescue Heroes team
- Kids can create exciting rescue missions with first responder Reed Vitals!
- 6-inch tall figure with power grabber tool, vital signs monitor,and arm cast accessories
- Press the red button to open & close the power grabber
- For kids ages 3 years and older
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human presented the garish plastic box with the sort of hopeful expression usually reserved for the shaking of the treat bag. Inside, a man-figure was imprisoned, his face a mask of unsettling optimism. The human freed him and his trinkets, placing them on the living room rug. Then, a mercy. The telephone rang, and my staffer was called away, leaving the scene undisturbed. I approached, my paws silent on the plush fibers. This was not a toy. This was an effigy of an ancient warrior, laid out with his grave goods. I first inspected the strange, pincer-like object—the "power grabber." With a delicate push of my nose, I made the claw snap shut. It was not a weapon. It was a ritualistic noisemaker, a clacker used to ward off evil spirits during a funeral procession. I nudged it aside. The small white "cast" was next. Not a sign of injury, but a ceremonial gauntlet, carved from bone, signifying the warrior's status. I sniffed it, detecting only the bland scent of polymer. A poor replica, but I understood its purpose. The little gray box with the screen—the "monitor"—was clearly a divining tool, a primitive attempt to capture the warrior's departing soul. Finally, I examined the man himself. Reed Vitals. He lay there, stiff and unyielding. This was not a cadet; this was a king, laid to rest. I could almost picture the miniature funeral pyre, the solemn procession of his people (perhaps the dust mites who inhabit the rug). His heroic duty was not to rescue, but to be revered in his eternal, plastic slumber. For a moment, I felt a sense of profound archeological purpose. I did not bat him. I did not chew him. To do so would be an act of desecration. Instead, I carefully, deliberately, used my paw to push the king, his gauntlet, his soul-catcher, and his spirit-clacker, one by one, under the heaviest part of the sofa. A proper burial, safe from the indignity of "playtime" and the roaring horror of the vacuum. He was, in his own way, a worthy project, but his true value was in being lost forever. My work here was done. It was time for a nap.
