Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured this… spherical object from the Aurora company, a known purveyor of various fluff-based items. They call it "Slugger Baseball," though its only relation to that barbaric human sport appears to be its shape and a rather dopey-looking cap stitched to its head. Its small, palm-sized form and soft exterior are adequate, I suppose. However, my interest is piqued not by its appearance, but by the mention of "bean pellets" within its core. A simple plush is a momentary distraction, but a weighted, rustling orb has the potential to be a truly worthy adversary for a hunt, offering a satisfying thud when captured. The whole "collectible" nonsense is clearly for the human's benefit, but if it means more of these weighted prey-items appear, I will tolerate their foolish hobby.
Key Features
- This plush is approx. 4" x 4" x 3" in size.
- I am made from high-quality materials for a soft, fluffy touch.
- I fit in the palm of your hand!
- Own the whole #palmpalsparty collection!
- I hold bean pellets suitable for all ages to ensure my quality and stability.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived not in a crinkly bag, but placed solemnly on the rug like an offering. A perfect, white orb with a face embroidered in simple black thread and a ridiculous little blue cap. It didn't roll away; it just sat there, weighted and stable, looking up at me. My first thought was not of play, but of profound responsibility. The fool human had brought home an egg. A strange, fuzzy, uncommonly large egg, to be sure, but an egg nonetheless. And they had left it completely unattended on the floor. The incompetence was staggering. With the gravity of my new duty settling upon my shoulders, I began the delicate process of relocation. This was no mere toy to be batted under the sofa. This was a future life form, and it required a proper nest. I nudged it gently with my nose. It had a pleasing heft, a dense core that shifted with a soft, granular whisper. My paternal (or, more accurately, proprietary) instincts flared. I carefully scooped it into my mouth, its soft fabric a much more pleasant texture than, say, a mouse, and began the perilous trek across the vast hardwood desert to the laundry room, where a pile of the human's warm, soft clothes would serve as the perfect incubator. For hours—or what felt like hours, it may have been twelve minutes—I was the perfect guardian. I curled my body around the fuzzy egg, purring a low, steady rumble to encourage its development. I guarded it fiercely, emitting a low growl when the human peered in, no doubt to marvel at my superior caretaking skills. But my patience began to fray. There was no cracking, no chirping, no sign of the magnificent winged beast I assumed was gestating within. It just sat there. In a fit of frustration, I gave the "egg" a solid thwack with my paw. It shot out from under me, skittering across the tile with a delightful rustle before tumbling to a stop and, impossibly, settling upright again, its stitched face staring back at me. A jolt went through me. It wasn't an egg. It was bait. A resilient, perfectly weighted, self-righting target. It was mocking me. Oh, the sheer audacity. The hunt was on. It had failed spectacularly as a potential child, but as a future victim, it was showing immense promise.
