Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human has presented me with this "Oatmeal Bunny," a product from a brand called Mary Meyer, which seems to specialize in trinkets for infant humans. At its core, it's a piece of fabric masquerading as an animal. The head is stuffed, but the body is limp and unstuffed, making it a hybrid blanket-creature. I will concede, the "luxuriously soft" and "ultra plush" descriptors pique my interest; my own exquisite fur deserves to be complemented by only the finest textures. However, its purpose seems to be cuddling with a small, loud human, which is a significant mark against it. Its passivity is its greatest flaw. It won't skitter, it won't dangle, it won't do anything but lie there. It might be a decent pillow, but as a source of entertainment, it seems a profound waste of my predatory talents.
Key Features
- Cuddly bunny lovey with embroidered eyes and unique textured plush
- Made of luxuriously soft, ultra plush fabric
- Stuffed head and un-stuffed body make this rabbit part toy and part blanket
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It appeared without warning, a pale specter draped over the arm of my favorite sunning chair. The human called it a "lovey," a ridiculous name for such a forlorn creature. Its body was a flat, shapeless expanse of oatmeal-colored plush, its head a stuffed lump with vacant, black-thread eyes that stared at nothing. It was an effigy, a hollow thing left as tribute to some forgotten god of naptime. I watched it from the shadows of the dining room table, my tail twitching, assessing the nature of this silent intruder. It did not breathe. It did not blink. It simply… was. My approach was a masterclass in stealth. I moved like smoke, placing each paw with silent, deliberate grace. The air around the bunny was still, smelling faintly of cardboard and the cloying sweetness of the tiny human it was meant for. I extended a single, cautious paw, claws sheathed, and tapped its floppy ear. The ear yielded with a soft, unsatisfying thud. This was no worthy adversary. It was a sham, a mockery of the vibrant, living world of prey I ruled. I circled it once, twice, my whiskers brushing against its unnervingly soft, textured flank. The plushness was, I begrudgingly admitted, of a superior quality, but its lack of spirit was an insult. Then, a new strategy formed in my brilliant mind. This was not a hunt; it was a reclamation. This floppy vessel was an empty throne, and I was its rightful king. With a decisive leap, I landed squarely on its unstuffed body, which crumpled beneath me like a conquered banner. I sank my claws into the plush fabric, pinning it down, and delivered a furious volley of bunny-kicks with my powerful hind legs. The stuffed head wobbled pathetically. Victory was swift and absolute. Having established my dominance, I settled in. I kneaded the soft expanse, my purr starting as a low rumble of triumph. I rested my head upon its conquered skull, the embroidered eyes now staring sightlessly at the ceiling on my behalf. It was not a toy for playing, I concluded, but a spoil of war. An exquisitely soft, perfectly shaped pillow for the victor. And so, the Oatmeal Bunny was assimilated into my kingdom, not as a plaything, but as a permanent, plush testament to my reign. It would serve its purpose. My purpose.