Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a fit of what I can only assume is misdirected athletic ambition for the hairless kittens of the species, has procured these peculiar orbs from a brand called SKLZ. They are, essentially, large, spherical prey items designed to look like something the giants on the glowing rectangle throw at each other. They boast a "soft, cushioned construction" which, I admit, is intriguing—it implies a satisfying squishiness that won't chip a fang. The prominent red stitching offers a delightful texture for hooking a claw into. While their sheer size might be off-putting to a lesser feline, I see a worthy adversary, a challenge to my wrestling skills. The fact that they come in a pair is a practical touch, ensuring a replacement is ready when the first is inevitably banished to the dusty dimension beneath the sofa. This could be a respectable opponent, far superior to those flimsy plastic balls that offer no real fight.
Key Features
- Reduced impact training balls provide an authentic baseball look with soft, cushioned construction
- Helps youth players build confidence by reducing fear about impact
- Same size and visual cues as standard baseballs for effective training
- Comes with 2 Safety Balls
- Standard baseball circumference of 9 inches
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It appeared in the living room without ceremony, a perfect white sphere resting in a patch of morning sun. I observed it from my post atop the scratching tower, my tail giving a single, dismissive flick. The human called it a "Safety Ball," a ridiculous name. Safety is a state of mind, not an object. I descended from my perch with the fluid grace of smoke and began my patrol, circling the intruder at a respectable distance. It was larger than my usual quarry, immaculate, with a curious crimson thread snaking across its surface like a scar. It smelled of nothing, a void, which was in itself suspicious. My initial prod was a test of character. A single, unsheathed claw extended, I tapped its flank. Instead of the hard, unyielding *clack* of cheap plastic or the frantic skittering of a lesser toy, the orb gave way. It had a soft, dense core, a surprising pliability. My claw sank in just enough to feel resistance, a feeling that spoke not of weakness, but of resilience. This was no common bauble. This was a challenge. I backed away, lowered my body, and let the ancient hunter's instinct wash over me. The orb sat there, placid and stoic, its red stitching mocking my patience. The attack was a blur of gray and white fur. I launched myself, aiming to subdue the thing with a full-body pounce. I expected a struggle, a chaotic bounce that would send it careening off the bookcase. But it simply absorbed my assault, tumbling a short distance before coming to a dignified halt. It was like wrestling a cloud. I pounced again, this time sinking my teeth into its soft hide. It yielded, offering no painful crack against my jaw, only a firm, satisfying squish. I could bunny-kick it with all my might, and it would simply roll, patiently waiting for my next move. I did not conquer the orb that day. One does not conquer the moon or the tide. We came to an understanding. It was not a toy to be chased into submission, but a sparring partner, a silent guru against which I could practice my formidable arts without fear of indignity or injury. I finally dragged it by its crimson seam into the shadows beneath the armchair, not as a kill, but as a treasured possession. The human can keep the spare; this one has found its purpose. It is worthy.
