Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired what they call a "farm set." From my superior vantage point on the sofa arm, I observe a veritable plague of small, green, wheeled objects. Apparently, this TOMY brand specializes in creating miniature facsimiles of loud, smelly human machinery. The allure, I suppose, is the sheer quantity—26 pieces means 26 opportunities to bat something under the refrigerator, a task I find endlessly amusing. Their die-cast construction might lend a satisfying weight to a well-aimed swat, but they possess no feathers, no tantalizing crinkle, and certainly no hint of catnip. They are, at best, a collection of durable, inanimate paw-fodder, a primitive distraction for a mind as sophisticated as my own.
Key Features
- VALUE SET: Variety of tractors, trucks and implements and measures approximately 3" long
- CUSTOMIZABLE TOY: Build your own farm layout
- DURABLE TOYS: Durable die-cast and plastic chassis construction
- FARM COLLECTION: Comes with a total of 26 pieces for kids to play with
- SUITABLE FOR: Ages 3 years and up
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human emptied the box onto the good rug, creating a silent, orderly grid of green and yellow machinery. It was an army. A silent, plastic invasion force taking up strategic positions in the heart of my territory. I watched from the shadows of the dining room table, my tail giving a slow, metronomic thump of disapproval. They stood there, tractors aligned with trailers, combines with their strange attachments, all facing the same direction. It was an affront. This was not play; it was a military occupation. I descended from my observation post, moving with the liquid grace befitting a creature of my station. My approach was a whisper of gray fur on hardwood, a ghost in a tuxedo. I circled the perimeter of the formation, sniffing. They smelled of the factory and the human's hands, a sterile and uninteresting scent. I selected a lone pickup truck, a forward scout perhaps, and gave it a tentative nudge with my nose. It was cold, hard, and unyielding. This was no mouse. This was an automaton, a soulless drone. My skepticism hardened into contempt. But then, with a flick of my wrist, I sent the little truck skittering across the floor. It tumbled end over end, its plastic chassis rattling faintly against the die-cast frame before coming to rest near the leg of a chair. The formation did not react. There was no counter-attack, no defensive maneuver. A slow realization dawned in my magnificent feline brain. They were not an army to be fought. They were a civilization to be governed. I was not a soldier; I was a great and terrible god. A wave of glorious purpose washed over me. With a newfound sense of divine right, I waded into their midst. A swat of my paw sent a tractor and its trailer careening into a planter, a delightful agricultural disaster. I hooked a claw into a small implement and flung it into the air, watching it land in the plush wilderness of a throw pillow. I was the wind, the earthquake, the furry, purring apocalypse. The human cooed, mistaking my acts of cosmic rearrangement for "playing." They could not comprehend the intricate dramas I was directing. These little green things were not worthy of being my prey, but as subjects for my benevolent tyranny? Utterly perfect.
