Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought home another one of these 'POP' things, which I've learned is a brand specializing in objects of profound uselessness to felines. It appears to be a tiny, stylized statue of some grim-looking human man trapped in a clear plastic cage. They call it a 'collectible,' which is human-speak for 'do not touch, bat, or chew.' The primary feature seems to be the box itself, an infuriatingly effective fortress designed to keep my paws and teeth at bay. Frankly, it offers zero playability, not even a satisfying rattle. Its only potential use is as a new, uninteresting obstacle to knock off a high shelf during a midnight zoomie. A profound waste of my valuable napping and observation time.
Key Features
- Comes in original packaging and is bundled with a Plastic Box Protector with the collector in mind (Removable Film)
- From The Conjuring – Ed Warren, as a stylized POP from Funko!
- Stylized collectible stands 3 3/4 inches tall, perfect for any horror movie fan!
- Ships in acid-free PET plastic Pop Protector with peel-able protective film
- Push-lock tab that adds structural integrity to the Pop Protector when formed
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The familiar crinkle of a new package being opened stirred me from a particularly satisfying sunbeam nap. My human was cooing, a sound usually reserved for a fresh tin of tuna or, on rare, glorious occasions, a new feather wand. "Look, Pete," she said, her voice full of that misplaced enthusiasm she so often directs at inanimate objects. "It's Ed Warren! To go with my Annabelle!" I stretched with practiced elegance, my tuxedo markings immaculate, and padded over to inspect the offering. It was a small box containing a smaller, clear box. Inside that? A tiny man with an unnervingly large head and a somber expression. My tail, a sensitive barometer of my interest, gave a single, dismissive flick. The human performed a strange ritual, peeling a thin layer of plastic film from the clear case with a soft *zzzzzip*. The smell of new plastic filled the air, a sterile and uninviting scent. "For my horror shelf," she declared, as if that meant anything to me. I leaned in, whiskers twitching, and gave the plastic prison a tentative sniff. Nothing. Not a hint of catnip, prey, or even interesting food. I extended a single, perfectly manicured claw and tapped the case. *Tink. Tink.* The tiny man, Ed, stared straight ahead, holding some little object. He was a prisoner, and a boring one at that. Disgusted, I turned away. Another failure. Another monument to my human's baffling hobbies. But later that night, as the moon cast long shadows across the living room, I saw it differently. She had placed the box on the mantelpiece, and the tiny figure was silhouetted against the pale light from the window. He was watching. Not moving, of course, but his unblinking, stylized eyes seemed to follow me as I stalked the perimeter of the room. A shiver, not of fear but of performance, ran through me. This was not a toy. This was a critic. A silent, unmoving judge of my feline prowess. From that moment on, the little plastic man became the focus of a new game. I would execute my most daring leaps and pounces in his direct line of sight. I’d stalk imaginary mice across the floor, ending in a dramatic flourish right beneath his perch. I would bring him the crumpled receipt I had "slain" in the kitchen, laying it before his case as a tribute. He never reacted, of course. He was a terrible audience. But his stillness became a challenge. I decided he was not worthy of my direct attention as a plaything, but his existence had inadvertently created a stage. He was the perpetual spectator to the grand theater of my life. In that sense, and only that sense, he had found his purpose. He was there to bear witness to my magnificence. A useless object, yes, but a useful prop. I suppose I will allow him to stay. For now.
