Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in what I can only describe as a catastrophic failure of judgment, has acquired two flat, blue objects from a company named "Whitman." They are apparently called "folders," meant to hold shiny metal circles which, in a truly unforgivable design flaw, are not included. The primary feature seems to be an ability to lie flat, offering a surface for a nap that is decidedly less comfortable than the cashmere throw, the velvet armchair, or the human's own laptop keyboard. It has no feathers, no crinkle, no jingle, and no discernible play value. The little empty slots are too small for my paws and serve only as a hollow promise of the jingly things I am occasionally permitted to bat under the sofa. This is not a toy; it is a rectangular piece of evidence documenting my human's declining ability to properly entertain me.
Key Features
- These folders accommodate the entire Walking Liberty Half Dollar issue set from 1916 – 1947
- Opens flat for easy viewing, and folds to 6" x 7 1/4" to easily fit on your bookshelf and is made of high-quality, durable materials with slots for each coin in the series, allowing for easy viewing and organization.
- Whitman coin folders are federal blue, with silver or copper design and lettering and is also designed with historical information and coin specifications for each year, making it a useful reference for collectors.
- The compact size of the folder makes it easy to store and transport, making it a great choice for both novice and experienced collectors of U.S. coins.
- No coins or bullion included with this item
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human presented the offerings on the rug, not with the usual rattle of a treat bag, but with the quiet, solemn air of a librarian. "Look, Pete," they whispered, "A case file." I am, of course, a master detective, so this piqued my interest. I’d helped the human solve many cases: The Case of the Missing Sock (under the dryer), The Case of the Mysterious Thump (a squirrel on the roof), and my personal favorite, The Case of the Half-Eaten Sandwich (a resounding success). I sauntered over, my gray tuxedo immaculate, ready for the next great mystery. The two blue folders lay open. They were filled not with clues, but with holes, each one neatly labeled with a year, from 1916 to 1947. "These are for the Walking Liberty gang," the human explained, tapping a space marked '1921-D'. "They're all missing. We have to track them down." A gang? My ears perked. I envisioned a shadowy syndicate of fleet-footed phantoms, their silver forms glinting in the moonlight. This was a case worthy of my talents. I lowered myself to the floor, nose twitching, scanning the files for any scent, any stray hair, any clue left behind by this "Walking Liberty." I sniffed '1917-S'. Nothing but paper. I gently pawed at '1942'. It was just an empty space. My initial excitement curdled into cynical disappointment. There was no gang. There were no phantoms. There was no mystery to solve, only a chore to be completed. The human had not brought me a case file; they had brought me paperwork. An accounting ledger. The "Walking Liberty gang" wasn't at large; they were simply not here. "The coins aren't included," the human admitted sheepishly, confirming my suspicions. This wasn't a game; it was an assignment. I gave the human a long, slow blink, the highest form of feline condemnation. Then, with a flick of my tail, I abandoned the cold case and leaped onto the sofa, curling up on a much more satisfying plush pillow. Some mysteries, I concluded, are better left unsolved, especially when they require that much effort for no immediate, edible reward.
