Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has procured what they call a "Teddy Bear." It's a lump of so-called "high quality" plush fabric, stuffed with something called "PP cotton," and crammed into a ridiculous red hoodie. At nearly a foot tall, it's designed to be "decoration," which is to say, its sole purpose is to occupy valuable sunbeam real estate. While its softness might offer a passable surface for kneading if my cashmere throw is in the wash, its vacant stare and purpose as a gift for human children suggest it will likely be a colossal waste of my energy. It's probably not even seasoned with catnip. A fundamental design flaw.
Key Features
- This lovely plush teddy bear dress your home, car, bed, desk, room, sofa more attractive.
- Made of high quality plush fabric and stuffed with PP cotton.
- This cute teddy bear is about 11.8 inch tall. Perfect for decoration, playing and collection.
- It’s a great gift idea to yourself, kids, friends, girlfriends, boyfriends…for birthday, Party, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving Day…
- Recommended for ages 3+.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The perp was placed on the velvet ottoman—my ottoman—at 1400 hours. A new face. I’d seen its type before, but this one had a particular air of smug silence I found immediately offensive. It wore a garish red hoodie, the kind of thing a ruffian would wear. Its file, as presented by the Human’s cooing, listed its name as "Teddy," stuffed with "PP cotton," and standing at an unassuming 11.8 inches. A lightweight. I decided an interrogation was in order. I approached with caution, my tail giving a low, thoughtful twitch. I circled the suspect twice, taking in its profile. The plush fabric was a cheap trick, designed to disarm. The button eyes stared into the middle distance, refusing to make contact. A classic tough-guy routine. "Alright, Hoodie," I muttered, my voice a low rumble. "What's your game? Who sent you?" I gave it a preliminary pat with my paw, claws sheathed for now. It flopped slightly, offering no intel. The silent treatment. Fine. We could do this the hard way. I escalated my methods. A firm shove with my head. The suspect toppled over onto its back, hoodie askew, exposing its soft, pillowy torso. An invitation. A trap? I launched myself upon it, a storm of gray and white fury, unleashing the patented bunny-kick technique I usually reserve for rogue dust bunnies and overly ambitious shadows. The suspect absorbed the blows without a whimper, its cotton-stuffed body yielding with a soft *whoomph*. It was spineless. Utterly without defiance. And then, as my flurry of kicks subsided, I found myself in a peculiar position. My back legs were wrapped around its torso, my head resting on its chest, and its floppy arm was draped over my shoulder. The red hoodie, which I had found so vulgar, was now bunched up into a perfect pillow beneath my chin. The plush fabric, I had to admit, was quite pleasant against my own superior fur. My purr started, an involuntary engine of contentment. The interrogation was over. The suspect had broken. Or rather, it had broken me. It wasn't a rival. It was a hostage. A very, very comfortable hostage. It could stay. For now.
