Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human has presented me with these... mesh sacks. Apparently, they are from a brand called SwimWays, and their intended purpose is to be threaded onto a foam tube (not included, a classic bait-and-switch) so a human can bob around in that giant, terrifying water bowl in the backyard. From my perspective, this is a product of profound uselessness. The mesh might have some potential as a temporary, sun-drenched hammock if strung between two sturdy chair legs, but its primary association with the Great Wet Horror makes it immediately suspect. It is an invention designed purely for the baffling aquatic pastimes of giants, a complete waste of funds that could have been better spent on sashimi-grade tuna or a laser pointer with a fresh battery.
Key Features
- FLOATING POOL CHAIR NOODLE SLINGS: All these mesh slings need is a pool noodle (not included) to create the perfect floating seat
- JUST ADD A NOODLE: Simply thread the noodle into the fabric holes around the back of the sling - no inflation needed
- ULTIMATE RELAXATION: Sit and drift on the soft, soothing mesh and take relaxing to another level by partially submerging in the water
- GREAT FOR KIDS AND ADULTS: Can be customized with a skinny or wider noodle for both kids and adults, with a recommended noodle size of 55" x 3.25" and no larger than 3.3" in diameter
- VALUE PACK: Includes four mesh noodle slings, making them great for everyday pool time and for pool parties as a fun and affordable way to provide pool floats for the whole group
- Includes: 4 Slings
- Covered by the Spin Master Care Commitment. See below for full details
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Provider returned from an excursion with a crinkly, transparent bag containing four brightly colored, flimsy nets. They were laid upon the living room rug like a quartet of slain, fluorescent jellyfish. I observed from the safety of the armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation. Another offering. Usually, they involve feathers or catnip, things of actual value. These smelled of plastic and disappointment. The Provider babbled something about "pool" and "floating," words that are nonsense to my refined ears. I am a master of terrestrial lounging, not some damp, drifting simpleton. With a sigh that communicated my profound condescension, I descended to investigate. The material was a coarse mesh, entirely unappealing for biscuit-making. It had two large holes, a design flaw of epic proportions. I gave one of the sad, blue sheets a tentative pat. It yielded with no resistance, a truly pathetic display. Was this a trap? A poorly conceived ghost costume? The Provider seemed to expect a reaction, their hopeful face beaming down at me. I responded by pointedly turning my back and grooming a perfectly clean patch of my white tuxedo chest. The message was clear: try harder. My dismissal, however, was premature. Later that evening, after The Provider had abandoned their strange nets, a sliver of moonlight caught the blue one just right. It wasn't a toy. It was a shroud. A hunting blind. I crept towards it, my paws silent on the hardwood. With a surge of predatory instinct, I pounced, snagging the mesh with my claws and dragging my "kill" into the shadows beneath the coffee table. It was a magnificent, silent battle. I was the great hunter of the plains, and this was the hide of some exotic, sapphire-hued beast. It made a satisfyingly rustling sound as I subdued it. The Provider found me in my new lair, curled atop my vanquished prize. They laughed, a sound I tolerate. They do not understand the gravity of my work. Let them have their other three nets for their strange water rituals. This blue one is mine now. It is the first trophy for my den, a testament to my prowess. It is utterly useless for floating, but it is an excellent symbol of my dominion over this house. It is, I have decided, worthy. Not as a toy, but as a spoil of war.
