Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured a Mikasa MGV500, a rather monolithic orb that purports to be a 'heavy weight volleyball'. Honestly, the sheer audacity of its size is almost insulting, clearly designed by giants with no consideration for the refined scale of a superior feline physique. Mikasa, I'm told, is a serious brand, so this isn't some flimsy plastic nonsense destined to be punctured and discarded in an afternoon. Its substantial nature might make it a formidable, if stationary, wrestling partner, or a satisfyingly solid object to bounce off of during a midnight zoomie. However, its 'playability' seems entirely dependent on the clumsy ministrations of a two-legger, and the fact that it arrived flaccid and in need of 'inflation' speaks volumes about its lack of immediate gratification. A potential throne, perhaps, but a waste of my predatory prowess.
Key Features
- For optimal performance, additional inflation may be required. Ball pump not included.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived in a box, a sad, folded husk of a thing. My human, with a series of grunts and the wheezing of a strange metal probe, breathed a sort of false life into it. The sphere grew, its blue and yellow panels stretching taut until it became an imposing, unblinking presence in my living room. It did not rattle. It did not crinkle. It simply sat there, a silent, blue-and-yellow moon that had crashed in my domain, smelling faintly of synthetic leather and human effort. I circled it, my gray tuxedo immaculate, my tail giving a slow, judgmental sweep. This was not a toy; it was an invader. My first test was a simple, unsheathed claw-tap. I expected a satisfying give, a cheap plastic rattle that would signal its inferiority. Instead, my claw skittered off the taut surface with a dull, resonant *thump* that vibrated up my leg. The sphere barely budged. I tried again, a more vigorous swat, putting the full weight of my pampered nine pounds behind it. It rolled, but with a gravitas, a heavy, deliberate momentum that was more geologic than playful. It was clear this object would not be batted under the sofa. It would not submit. This was not prey. This was territory. Days passed. The orb became a fixture, a silent rival for the sunbeam patch by the window. I watched the human occasionally heave it about with surprising inelegance. Then, one evening, inspiration struck. Direct assault was futile. Therefore, a siege was in order. Or rather, an ascent. I waited for my human to foolishly place it near the ottoman—my base camp. From there, it was a leap of faith, a scramble for purchase on the smooth, unforgiving slopes of 'Mikasa'. My soft paws found little grip, but my determination was absolute. With a final, undignified scrabble, I pulled my handsome frame onto its northern pole. The world looked different from the apex of the Big Dumb Ball. I could see the dust bunnies under the credenza, the forgotten feather wand, the entire layout of my kingdom. I was taller. I was triumphant. I began to purr, a low rumble that seemed to harmonize with the deep thrum of the sphere itself. It is utterly useless as a toy. It provides no chase, no thrill of the hunt. But as a mobile throne, a challenging piece of feline parkour equipment, and a monument to my own supremacy? For that, the Mikasa has earned its place. For now.
