Pete's Expert Summary
So, the Human has acquired what appears to be a personal suit of armor for some kind of clumsy, self-propelled outdoor ritual. It is, to be clear, utterly useless to me. This "JBM Protective Gear Set" consists of a hard hat with holes in it—presumably so the meager thoughts can evaporate more efficiently—and various plastic shells meant to be strapped to the limbs. I suppose the rustle of the velcro and the dangling straps might provide a moment's diversion, and the helmet, when discarded on the floor, could serve as a passable, if somewhat undignified, sleeping bowl. However, the entire contraption reeks of "going outside," which means a temporary, and therefore unacceptable, disruption of my feeding and adoration schedule. It is not a toy; it is an omen of abandonment.
Key Features
- Suitable for Age 14+ years old
- The package includes knee pad x 2; elbow pad x 2; wrist guard x 2; helmet x 1
- The skateboard helmet is designed with multiple vent, adjustable dail and adjustable strap for proper fit
- Knee elbow pads and wrist guards are made of durable, soft EVA padded material with tough plastic plates
- Appropriate for inline skating; roller skating; skateboarding; scootering; skating and other outdoor sports
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with the usual fanfare of tearing cardboard, a sound that typically promises new napping surfaces. But what tumbled out onto the living room rug was not a soft, inviting structure. It was an exoskeleton, disassembled and alien. A hollow, matte black carapace (the "helmet"), several jointed shells like the armor of some oversized beetle (the "pads"), and a tangle of black straps. It smelled of plastic and ambition, two things I deeply distrust. I circled the pile, my tail giving a low, skeptical twitch. The Human seemed pleased, which only deepened my suspicion. I decided to observe from a safe distance, beneath the coffee table. That night, as I drifted into a deep slumber in my favorite sunbeam-warmed spot, the gear invaded my dreams. I was no longer a cat of leisure but a reluctant gladiator. The helmet was clamped onto my head, its adjustable dial cranked uncomfortably tight behind my ears, the vents offering no solace from the rising panic. The plastic plates were strapped to my knees and elbows, encasing my lithe limbs in rigid, unforgiving shells. My paws, my primary tools of elegant mischief, were bound within the wrist guards. I was trapped, a tuxedo-furred armadillo, perched precariously atop one of those dreadful wheeled planks the Human calls a "skateboard." The world blurred into a terrifying, high-speed panorama. My own hallway became a treacherous canyon, the floorboards screaming beneath the wheels. From the shadows of the coat rack loomed the Great Hissing Beast—the vacuum cleaner—its serpentine hose writhing in my direction. I tried to leap, to twist in mid-air with my innate grace, but the armor fought me at every turn. I bailed, tumbling onto the rug, the tough plastic of the knee pads skidding with a hideous grating sound. There was no soft landing, no silent recovery, only the clumsy clatter of a Human's misguided safety precautions. I awoke with a start, my heart thumping against my ribs. My fur was on end. I looked over at the pile of gear, now just an inert jumble of plastic and fabric in the moonlight. It wasn't a toy. It was a nightmare made real, a testament to a world without grace, agility, or common sense. I rose, stretched languidly to reclaim my composure, and padded silently into the Human's bedroom. The gear was not worthy of my attention, but their freshly laundered cashmere sweater certainly was. It would make a most excellent place to knead my anxieties away.
