Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe my life is lacking in large, blue, water-filled receptacles designed for creatures of significantly lower intelligence. They present this "Jasonwell Foldable Dog Pet Bath Pool," a name that is an affront on at least three levels. It's an enormous, collapsible tub made of that durable PVC material one usually finds in items meant to withstand chewing and other brutish behaviors. Its main features are portability (as if I'd want this horror to travel with me), a simple drain, and a slip-resistant bottom. While the sheer scale is impressive in a garish sort of way, its primary purpose is to contain water for "bathing" or "wading." This is a fundamental misunderstanding of my entire existence. It is, in essence, a portable ocean of misery, and I suspect its only redeeming quality will be one I discover myself, entirely by accident.
Key Features
- Portable: foldable, easy to store and bring with you and your dog everywhere
- Simple: No need of inflation,set up in no time. With bottom/side drain, easy to drain and refresh water
- Slip Resistant & Durable: made of extra-tough PVC. Thicker slip resistant material on the bottom
- Size: Available in 5 Sizes.S---32" x 8", M---39.5" x 12", L---48" x 12", XL---55.1" x 12", XXL---63" x 12"
- Enviromentally friendly material: EN71,ASTM standard. Please Trim your dogs' nails before using the pool.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Unfurling was an event in itself. My human, with the strained enthusiasm of a court jester trying to amuse a skeptical king, dragged the offensively large blue object onto the back lawn. It blossomed with a series of loud, plastic sighs, a great, gaping vinyl crater in the middle of my perfectly manicured grass. I watched from the window, my gray fur bristling slightly beneath my pristine white bib. They had the audacity to begin filling it with the hose, the gushing sound an assault on my delicate ears. This was, I deduced, an assassination attempt. A very large, very blue, very wet assassination attempt. They tried to lure me, of course. A few floating toys were tossed onto the surface, bobbing pathetically on the ripples. My human made encouraging chirps, pointing at the water as if I were a simpleton who had never before encountered a liquid. I simply narrowed my eyes. They mistook my silent, calculated judgment for disinterest, and after a while, they gave up. With a great sigh of their own, they pulled the little plug on the side and let the water drain away, leaving the giant blue carcass to dry in the sun. I did not move from my post until I was certain the threat had been neutralized. It was dusk when my curiosity finally overpowered my contempt. I padded silently across the cool grass to the discarded structure. It was no longer a terrifying abyss of water, but a collapsed landscape of hills and valleys. The PVC material, which had looked so cheap and uninviting, was now a cool, smooth surface under my paws, a welcome respite from the day's heat. I leapt onto the rim, my weight causing the walls to sag and shift, creating new shapes. I was no longer an observer; I was a god, reshaping the world with a single step. I stalked through the folds, a predator in a strange, blue canyon. It was a labyrinth of my own making. I found a deep crease near the center, a hidden, high-walled den shielded from the wind and the prying eyes of squirrels. The slip-resistant texture on the floor was surprisingly pleasant to knead. This was not a bath. It was not a pool. It was a fortress of solitude. A summer palace. A magnificent, sprawling, post-modern napping structure of the highest quality. I curled into a perfect circle, closed my eyes, and declared the human's failure an overwhelming success. The pool was terrible; the fort was divine.
