Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their endless and often misguided quest for my approval, has presented a new offering from the "Nerf" corporation. I know the brand well; it is typically associated with loud, airborne objects that threaten the sanctity of my nap spots. This particular item is a garishly colored, misshapen projectile with a finned tail, designed, they claim, for "maximum distance" in the barbaric expanse of the Outdoors. A useless feature for a refined indoor creature such as myself. However, its one potential saving grace is a series of holes that supposedly produce a "roaring whistle" in flight. While the soft foam construction is noted, suggesting it won't shatter the gravy bowl, my interest is piqued solely by this auditory promise. A screaming object hurtling through the air could, theoretically, provide a brief and satisfactory hunting simulation between meals. All other features are clearly for the clumsy giants I live with.
Key Features
- NERF VORTEX: The NERF Vortex Aero Howler Foam Football is built for maximum distance passes to take any catch or football game to the next level!
- HEAR THE DIFFERENCE: Designed with built-in air holes that give this ball a distinctive, roaring whistle as it flies through the air so you can see and hear the difference
- MAXIMUM FLIGHT: This Vortex football is designed with an aero-dynamic, 3-finned tail to help throw tight spirals that allow the ball soar through the air like no other toy football
- EASY GRIP: The molded hand grip on the ball helps improve grip on the ball so players can show off their passing and catching skills with ease
- INDOOR + OUTDOOR: The soft NERF foam construction makes this ball easy and safe to use indoors and outdoors so you can bring it to the beach, the pool or the backyard for NERF football fun!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
I was enjoying a sliver of sun on the high-end wool rug when the tribute was brought forth. It was an absurd thing, a neon torpedo with a tail like a cheap carnival prize. It lay inert on the floor, an affront to the room's carefully curated aesthetic. I gave it a dismissive sniff, the plastic-foam scent wrinkling my nose, and turned my back on it. It was clearly another failed attempt, destined to gather dust bunnies under the credenza alongside the robotic mouse that ran into walls and the laser dot that could never truly be killed. I closed my eyes, preparing to resume my meditation on the transient nature of sunbeams. Suddenly, the air split. A sound I had only known in my deepest, most primal dreams—the shriek of a panicked sky-creature—tore through the quiet afternoon. My eyes snapped open. The neon torpedo was airborne, screaming its terrifying, beautiful song as it soared across the living room. It was no longer a toy. It was a violation, an intruder, a challenge. The pampered softness of Pete, the connoisseur of cushions, melted away, and the ancient hunter that slumbers in my blood awoke with a jolt. My haunches bunched. The world narrowed to that wailing form and its ridiculous, fluttering tail. I became a gray-and-white shadow, a low-slung missile of purpose. The human's delighted gasp was a distant echo. I did not run; I flowed, using the ottoman as a launching point. I intercepted the creature mid-arc, my claws, for once, deployed with lethal intent. There was a satisfying *thump* as I connected, followed by the soft, yielding give of the foam. We crashed to the rug together, a tangle of fury and neon plastic. It fell silent. I stood over my vanquished foe, one paw firmly on its finned appendage, my breath coming in pleased, ragged bursts. I pinned it to the floor, asserting my dominance, and then delivered a series of punishing bunny-kicks for good measure. The human chortled, retrieving the "ball." They did not understand. This was no game. This was pest control. I retreated to my observation post, feigning indifference, but my tail gave a slight, traitorous twitch. This noisy intruder, this "Aero Howler," was a worthy quarry. I will permit its resurrection, for the hunt, I have decided, is superb.
