Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a strange collection of objects zipped inside a black pouch. Based on the primitive diagrams and the human's fumbling, it appears to be some sort of ceremonial device for the ritual of "inflation." It involves a tube, a poky bit, and a pumping action to breathe life back into their sad, flaccid spheres. I suppose it's a noble cause; a listless ball is a tragic sight, even if it is too large for proper hunting. The whole affair seems like a lot of work for a very small reward. The only piece with any true potential is the long, flexible hose, which bears a striking resemblance to a captive snake tail. The rest of it seems a monumental waste of energy that could be better spent napping in a sunbeam.
Key Features
- Complete pump kit: includes a 7.5 Inch pump with flexible extension hose, inflation needles and inflation gauge along with a carrying case to keep all components organized
- Inflation gauge: The heavy duty pressure gauge measures psi to make sure you are inflating to the perfect pressure
- Needles included: Includes 3 needles for pumping up all sizes of soccer balls, footballs, basketballs, playground balls and other inflatables. This pump is not recommended as a bicycle tire pump
- Emergency ball maintenance: Keep this ball maintenance kit in your bag so the game never goes flat; Ensure that the proper air pressure meets your game day requirements. Comes with a convenient carry case to bring with you wherever you go
- Easy to use: Pump up deflated sports balls quickly and easily, so you or your players can get back into the game. Don’t let a deflated ball ruin your play. Perfect for gyms, schools, sports centers, camps, and more
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The case was dropped unceremoniously on the living room floor. A black, zippered portfolio with the words "Franklin Sports" emblazoned on the side. A codename, undoubtedly, for the human’s shadowy organization. I watched from my observation post atop the china cabinet, my tail giving a slow, deliberate twitch. This had all the markings of a clandestine operation. The target, a pathetic, half-deflated basketball, slumped in the corner like a disgraced agent who had talked too much. It was time for an interrogation. Or an assassination. With my human, it was often hard to tell the difference. My human knelt, unzipping the case with a tactical rasp. Inside, the tools of the trade were laid bare. First, the primary device: a 7.4-inch cylinder with a handle. A silenced air-pressure weapon, I deduced. Beside it, a set of three gleaming needles—specialized ammunition, no doubt. And a curious dial, the "pressure gauge," which I could only assume was a sophisticated timer for a very, very slow explosive. The human attached a flexible black hose to the pump, a sinister-looking appendage that dangled with unnerving potential. The whole kit reeked of cold, calculated purpose. The operation began. The "needle" was inserted into the target sphere with a gentle push. My human began to pump the handle. *Sssst… sssst… sssst…* The sound wasn’t the bang I expected, but a series of quiet, insistent hisses. The target began to swell, its wrinkled orange skin stretching taut, its posture becoming arrogant, full of itself. The human paused, checking the gauge. He was monitoring its vitals, ensuring it didn't break under the pressure of the interrogation. The sad, defeated slump was gone, replaced by an aggressive roundness, ready to be bounced off a floor with mindless repetition. The procedure was over. The target was "reconditioned." The human packed up the sinister tools, leaving the basketball to sit there, silent and smug. What a colossal disappointment. All that build-up for an outcome that produced nothing more than a dumb, bouncy orb. As I prepared to dismiss the entire affair and return to my nap, my eye caught the flexible hose, which the human had failed to tuck away properly. It dangled from the bag, swaying slightly. I hopped down from my perch. The weapon itself was useless, the mission a bore. But this one component, this writhing, snake-like attachment? Now *that* was an artifact worthy of a proper field test. The operation, it seemed, wasn't a total loss after all.
