Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, has brought another piece of static plastic into my domain. This one, from a brand called Funko, is apparently a miniature tribute to a human athlete named Warren Moon. It is a small, vinyl statue with a disproportionately large head, designed not for frantic chasing or satisfying shredding, but to stand inertly upon a shelf, collecting dust and my silent judgment. For a creature of action such as myself, the appeal is non-existent. It does not move, it does not crinkle, it is not infused with catnip. It is, in essence, a monument to stillness, a concept I only appreciate when it is self-directed and involves a sunbeam. It is the physical embodiment of a squandered opportunity for a perfectly good string or feather wand.
Key Features
- Draft Pop! Warren Moon, quarterback for the Houston Oilers, to your NFL collection in his blue and white uniform!
- Which team will Pop! Warren Moon and the Oilers play next in your football set?
- Vinyl figure is approximately 4.2-inches tall.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It appeared without warning. One moment, the mahogany bookshelf was a familiar landscape of my human’s literary failures and my napping perches; the next, there was an interloper. He stood there, squat and silent, clad in a startlingly bright blue-and-white uniform. His head was a planet, his eyes two black, soulless voids. The box he arrived in called him "Warren Moon," an operative for an organization known only as "The Oilers." I recognized the manufacturer, Funko, as a known trafficker of these silent sentinels. This was not a toy. This was a spy. I ascended the bookshelf with the practiced grace of a shadow, my paws making no sound on the wood. I circled him, my tail twitching a slow, deliberate rhythm of inquiry. He didn't flinch. His vinyl skin gave off a faint, chemical odor, a scent of pure artifice. "So," I murmured, my voice a low rumble that vibrated through the shelf, "they've sent a new one." He stared forward, his painted-on expression of mild determination unchanging. He was a professional, I’ll give him that. My initial probe was a gentle pat with a sheathed paw, a deceptively friendly gesture that was, in fact, a test of his composition and balance. He was rigid, unyielding. Too light to be a proper doorstop, too heavy to be a satisfying "bap-bap" target. "What is your mission here, Moon?" I pressed, leaning in until my whiskers almost brushed his helmet. "Are you monitoring my nap schedule? Reporting on the quality of the salmon pâté? His silence was his answer. It was a defiant, infuriating silence that spoke of classified briefings and unwavering loyalty to his cause. I sat back on my haunches, regarding him with cold appraisal. He would not break. This was not a plaything to be vanquished in a flurry of fur and fury. This was a strategic problem. He offered no sport, no challenge, no joy. He was simply… there. An obstacle. A tiny, 4.2-inch testament to my human’s poor judgment. My verdict was rendered. He was unworthy of my energy, but his precarious position on the edge of the shelf was noted. His file would remain open. One day, a sudden gust of wind—or a conveniently placed tail—might just test his resolve. Until then, he was nothing more than boring scenery.
