Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has acquired a collection of flat, colorful effigies from a brand called 'RoomMates'—a presumptuous name, as I am the only roommate who matters. These are meant to be peeled from their backing and adhered to my walls, a transparent attempt to clutter what is otherwise a perfectly minimalist napping environment. It appears to be a set of 37 so-called 'Disney Princesses,' two-dimensional beings with suspiciously large eyes and a complete lack of scent. While the act of peeling and sticking might offer a moment's distraction for a simpler mind, the end result is merely visual noise. Unless they can be batted down or are secretly coated in a salmon-flavored adhesive, this is a profound waste of vertical space.
Key Features
- Made in the USA
- Comes with 37 wall decals that range in size from 2.3 inches wide x 1.6 inches high to 8 inches wide x 9.5 inches high
- Easy to apply - Just peel and stick
- Applies to any smooth surface
- Wall decals are removable with no sticky residue
- Wall decals made in the USA
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The transgression began on a Tuesday. The Human, humming a disturbingly cheerful tune, unfurled a large, plasticky sheet. From my strategic observation post atop the mahogany bookshelf, I watched in silent judgment as she began to populate my wall with silent, smiling women. One in a yellow gown, one with impossibly red hair, another who seemed to have misplaced her legs in favor of a tail. It was an invasion. An assembly of strange, flat queens laying claim to my territory. My tail twitched in irritation. This was an aesthetic crime of the highest order. My initial plan was to ignore them, to treat them with the same withering disdain I reserve for the vacuum cleaner. But then I noticed her tactical error. In her haste to create her garish mural, she placed a smaller decal—a little yellow-and-brown flounder fish, a companion to the red-haired one—just a few inches above the floor molding. It was an oversight, a chink in her decorative armor. The fish stared out with a single, wide eye, a silent challenge in the quiet of the room. It was not a part of the wall; it was an addition, an intruder. And intruders must be dealt with. I waited until the moon was high and the house had succumbed to the deep silence of the night. I slunk from the bookshelf, my gray and white form a mere shadow against the floorboards. I approached the wall, not with the brute force of a lesser beast, but with the calculated precision of a master. I sniffed the decal. No scent. I extended a single, sharp claw, not to shred, but to probe. I hooked the delicate edge of the vinyl fish. With a gentle, controlled tug, I began to peel. The sound was a soft, satisfying *zzzzip*, the sweet whisper of victory against the tyranny of bad taste. The decal came away clean, its back holding a faint, intriguing tackiness. I carried my prize, the liberated flounder, to the center of the living room rug and laid it down as a trophy. The princesses could keep the wall; I had proven my point. I had demonstrated that their static kingdom was not absolute and that its citizens were subject to my whims. The toy, as it turned out, was not the gallery of royals, but the singular, conquerable element. It provided a worthy, if brief, quest. My final verdict: The decals themselves are an eyesore, but the act of selectively deconstructing the Human’s work is a game of exquisite skill. Approved, but only for the purpose of a strategic heist.
