Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a moment of what I can only describe as profound cognitive dissonance, has presented me with a small bottle of pungent-smelling liquid called "Zap-A-Gap." Let me be clear: this is not a plaything. This is a tool of mending, a vial of sticky consequence for their chronic clumsiness. It is, I deduce, a potent bonding agent. It has no discernible pounce-ability, lacks any sort of feather, and I suspect chewing it would lead to a most unpleasant and permanent state of affairs for my distinguished jaw. Its only value lies in the potential for it to repair something I *actually* care about, otherwise it’s just another fascinatingly dangerous object to be pushed off a high shelf.
Key Features
- Zap-A-Gap 2 oz
- The Only Total Adhesive System for All your Needs
- Multiple Sizes and Applications Available
A Tale from Pete the Cat
There is a place of mourning in this house, a corner of the utility closet I call the Mausoleum of the Maimed. It is where my most beloved, and subsequently most destroyed, toys go to rest. The one-eyed mouse. The feather boa reduced to a single, sad plume. And, most tragically, Baron von Wrinkle, the finest crinkle-ball to have ever graced these floors. His shiny, crackly skin had suffered a fatal tear during a particularly vigorous skirmish under the sofa, his delightful noisy soul spilling out as mere stuffing. He had been silent for weeks. One evening, the human retrieved the Baron's sad husk and this strange, tiny bottle. I watched from my perch on the armchair, my tail twitching with wary curiosity. The human performed a delicate, focused procedure. A single, clear drop of the "Zap-A-Gap" was applied to the gash. The acrid scent of a chemistry experiment filled the air for a moment. They pressed the wound closed, holding it with the reverence of a surgeon closing a final suture. I was, of course, utterly skeptical. Such wounds were final. The Baron was gone. The human held him for what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a minute. Then, they set him down. The seam was nearly invisible, a faint scar on his silver hide. The human gave him a gentle squeeze. *CRINKLE*. My ears, both of them, shot straight up. It was a hesitant sound, but it was *his* sound. My human tossed him lightly in the air. He landed with a full-throated, glorious *CRACKLE-CRUNCH*. The tear held. The Baron was… whole. I descended from the chair, not with a pounce, but with the cautious gait of one approaching a ghost. I sniffed the seam. A faint, sharp tang of creation lingered, but beneath it was the familiar, beloved scent of the Baron. I nudged him with my nose. He crinkled. I batted him with a soft paw. He skittered and crackled across the hardwood. The chase was on. This "Zap-A-Gap" is no toy. It is something far more important. It is a necromancer, a bringer-of-crinkles-back-from-the-dead. It cannot be played with, but it is the silent, potent reason that play can once again commence. It has earned my profound, and begrudging, respect.
