Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a small, unpleasantly rigid homunculus with a follicular condition of alarming proportions. This 'Russ' creature, a relic from some bygone human era, is clearly not designed for a predator of my caliber. Its plastic form offers no satisfying give for my claws, and its primary function seems to be staring blankly from a shelf. The only conceivable point of interest is the eruption of orange fur from its head, which might, under extreme duress of boredom, warrant a tentative bat. Otherwise, it's a complete waste of space that could be better occupied by a well-made felt mouse or, more importantly, me.
Key Features
- 4.5 inches tall not including hair / with hair 7" tall
- Identifying mark Russ on bottom of foot
- Russ Berrie
- Orange hair and brown eyes
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived not in a crinkling bag or a promising cardboard box, but in the Human's own hand, held aloft like a strange, dusty scepter. She placed it on the mantelpiece, a new idol among the framed pictures and glass baubles. I observed it from the safety of the Persian rug, my tail giving a slow, judgmental thump-thump-thump against the floor. It was a grotesque little effigy, all naked plastic and a shock of sunset-orange hair that defied gravity and good taste. Its brown eyes, flat and lifeless, seemed to stare directly into the part of my soul reserved for judging inadequate food portions. For a day, we were locked in a silent war of attrition. I would nap with one eye cracked open, watching it. It would stand there, doing nothing, its stillness a profound insult. Was this a test? A guardian sent to oversee my napping schedule? Its scent was alien—a mix of ancient dust, the faint aroma of a basement, and something synthetic that pricked at my nostrils. It was not prey. It was not friend. It was an anomaly, a punctuation mark in the otherwise perfect sentence of my living room. On the second night, under the cloak of a moonbeam that sliced across the mantel, I made my move. I leaped silently from the armchair to the bookshelf, and then with a twitch of my haunches, to the mantel itself. I was now face-to-face with the gargoyle. I ignored its vacant stare and focused on the true prize: the hair. It looked like a tiny, flammable bush. I extended a single, perfect white paw and gently patted the orange tuft. It was stiff, coarse, and deeply unsatisfying, like stroking a broom. There was no life to it, no joyful spring-back of a worthy opponent. It was just… there. I gave it one more exploratory tap, confirming its utter lack of playability. With a sigh that ruffled my whiskers, I turned my back on it, leaving the stoic little statue to its silent, boring vigil. It was not a toy; it was furniture. And I do not play with the furniture.