Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a fit of what I can only assume is seasonal delirium, has acquired a 'Snow Ryder.' It appears to be a polished plank of wood meant to introduce clumsy, miniature humans to the art of falling down gracefully in the cold, wet outdoors. It boasts durable hardwood construction—which, I concede, might offer a satisfying texture for a quick claw-sharpening—and some rather undignified 'hook and loop' bindings. The sheer absurdity of its size in relation to my sleek, athletic frame is insulting. While the idea of strapping oneself to this thing is appalling, I suppose its true purpose is to serve as a slightly-too-slick, inconveniently-shaped lounging board for a cat who has exhausted all other, superior napping surfaces.
Key Features
- Size: 90cm for riders 35-60lbs
- Perfect for Beginners: This snowboard will enter you into the world of cruising' the slopes
- Durable: Hardwood construction for long lasting, repetitive use
- Easy Adjusting: Hook and loop binding allows for them to be adjusted easily
- Note: No metal edge.Not for resort use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The air held the metallic tang of impending snow, a scent that always made my whiskers twitch with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. My human chose this precise moment of atmospheric tension to present me with the object. It was a long, garishly decorated plank of wood, which he placed on the living room rug with a flourish better suited to unveiling a platter of fresh tuna. "Look, Pete! For you!" he chirped, his voice full of a baffling, unearned optimism. I gave the board a cursory sniff. It smelled of varnish and misplaced hope. He pointed to the black straps, demonstrating how they ripped open and fastened with a ghastly tearing sound. The implication was clear: he intended to affix *me*, a creature of supreme grace and dignity, to this backyard reject from a winter sports catalogue. I flattened my ears, a clear sign of my displeasure that the human, in his typical fashion, misinterpreted as intrigue. He knelt, holding the board steady, and attempted to gently guide my front paws into the bindings. I responded not with violence—that would be beneath me—but with a strategic application of physics. I went completely boneless, transforming from a structured feline into a puddle of soft, uncooperative gray fur. His attempts to strap down what was essentially a furry liquid proved futile. He’d get one paw situated only for the rest of me to flow gracefully off the side of the board. Frustrated but not yet defeated, he had an idea. I could see the dim bulb flicker on in his mind. He propped the board at a gentle angle against the ottoman, hoping I might, of my own volition, step onto it. He even placed a single, pathetic kibble at the top as bait. I looked from the kibble to him, then back to the board. An insult. But then, I saw its true potential. The board was angled perfectly, not as a ramp to glory, but as a bridge. A bridge to the side table, where, just hours earlier, the Vet had left a sample of a particularly potent, high-end catnip she claimed was "for special occasions." With a deliberateness that the human mistook for compliance, I placed a single paw on the slick hardwood surface. I ignored the kibble entirely. I tested the board's stability, noting its beginner-friendly lack of treacherous metal edges. It would do. In one fluid motion, I walked the length of the Snow Ryder, my claws providing just enough traction, and stepped elegantly onto the side table. I nudged the forbidden catnip sample into my mouth, hopped down, and trotted away, leaving the human staring at his failed contraption. The board wasn't for riding, that much was certain. But as a tool for liberating contraband? It earned a flicker of grudging respect. It was, after all, a means to an end. My end.
