Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired a large, inconvenient bag full of sticks, string, and various disappointing spheres from a brand called "Franklin Sports." They call it a "combo set," which I believe is human-speak for "a collection of things designed to make a racket in my napping territory." The whole contraption involves erecting a flimsy barrier (a "net") in the yard, presumably to trap unsuspecting insects for my later amusement, though its true purpose seems to be encouraging loud shouting and frantic running. While the promise of "birdies" is intriguing, I suspect they are cheap plastic effigies, unworthy of a true hunter. The large, bouncy ball is an insult to my intelligence. Overall, it seems like a tremendous waste of energy that will primarily serve to disturb the peace, with the only silver lining being the potential for a new box... I mean, "carry case."
Key Features
- COMBO SET: Play beach volleyball or badminton in the backyard or in the park; Whether you’re at a family barbecue or having a get-together with friends, this starter volleyball and badminton combo set is everything you need for outdoor fun.
- EVERYTHING INCLUDED: This set includes (4) badminton rackets, (2) nylon birdies, (6) stakes and guy ropes, (1) volleyball, (1) ball pump and needle, and (1) convenient carry case to hold everything
- EASY SETUP: The easy-to-assemble net system includes a 1" diameter steel pole that adjusts from 5’1" to 8' feet high so it’s a great set for all ages to enjoy; The net assembles to 20' x 1.5' so it's big enough for many players to play
- PORTABLE: This set is designed for easy setup made to last season after season for grab-and-go fun
- OUTDOOR FUN: This complete badminton and volleyball set lets you enjoy these classic sports nearly anywhere; Enjoy hours of fun and create memories that last a lifetime
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The affair began with the arrival of a long, black bag, dragged onto the lawn like a captured beast. My human, beaming with a pride wholly unearned, unzipped it. A cacophony of odors—sun-baked plastic, cheap metal, and synthetic desperation—assaulted my refined senses. From the bag’s dark interior, they produced an absurd collection of poles and a crumpled sheet of mesh. I watched from the safety of the porch steps, my tail a metronome of pure judgment, as they fumbled through the assembly of this "net." It was a pathetic structure, a high-strung fence clearly intended to divide the world into the boring side and the equally boring other side. Their ritual commenced. They produced flimsy racquets and began batting a small, wobbly object over the net. A "birdie," they chirped. An affront to all creatures of the sky. It moved with a clumsy, unnatural gait, a far cry from the elegant flutter of a real sparrow. While the humans were engrossed in their pointless volley, I saw my opportunity. I slinked across the patio, a gray shadow against the sun-dappled concrete, and began my inspection of the discarded equipment near the offensive bag. The garish volleyball held no interest, and the little pump was beneath my notice. But there, lying vulnerable in the grass, was a small cache of spare birdies. This was not a hunt; it was an interrogation. I nudged one with my nose. It smelled of a factory, not a nest. Its plastic cone was rigid, its synthetic "feathers" stiff. Yet, when a breeze caught it, they shivered with a flicker of life that sparked a flicker of ancient instinct within me. With the humans distracted by a particularly clumsy lunge, I moved. My pounce was silent, economical. I seized a birdie in my mouth—the texture was all wrong, a sterile plastic where warm feathers should be—and retreated to my throne beneath the hosta leaves. I did not play with the thing. I executed it. A few swift bats of the paw sent it skittering. A discerning chew confirmed its hollowness. This was not a prize; it was a message. When the humans finally collapsed in their sweaty exhaustion, I emerged and deposited the mangled corpse of the birdie on the doormat. Let them see it. This entire Franklin Sports production was a noisy, foolish spectacle. It offers nothing for a sophisticated creature such as myself, save for the fleeting, hollow satisfaction of dismantling a single, poorly-made component. They can have their game; I have my dignity. And a much-needed nap to recover from the ordeal.
