I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told another human being. Not my therapist, not my urologist, not even my cat, who has seen me do things that would make a hospice chaplain blush. Two nights ago, at 3:42 AM, I sat cross-legged on my bathroom floor, holding a $9.99 pet toy in my trembling hands, and I whispered to it: “You’re either going to be a very good boy, or they’re going to find me in a tragically curled position with my legs up over my head.” This product — rated 4.6 out of 5 stars from 4,748 reviews — had been living in my Amazon cart for six months. I had read every single one of those reviews. I knew that the Craftsman Cat Toys amazon review section was a minefield of five-star raves from people who clearly had functional digestive tracts. I was not one of those people.
Look, the thing is, when you search “products tested for rectal use” and you find a pet supply under ten bucks, you don’t ask questions. You just add to cart and pray to whatever gods watch over late-night shoppers with questionable judgment. The product in question ASIN B0BV76BPN7 — I’ve memorized it, because it’s now tattooed on the inside of my left elbow where the doctor put a steroid injection — promises feline entertainment. But let’s be serious. My bowels are not a cat.
I unboxed it at 3:47 AM. The thing has a kind of… aerodynamic teardrop shape. You could throw it, or you could thing it. The plastic has a reassuring flex — not hard enough to do internal damage, not soft enough to be a waste of money. I lubed up with coconut oil (don’t judge, it was what I had between the lube and the butt stuff we don’t talk about), and I just… eased in. Slow. Like I was parallel parking a 1998 Ford Taurus with bald tires.
You’re asking if craftsman cat toys is safe, and the answer is: only if you’re not a coward. The 4,748 people who gave this thing 4.6 stars? They know. They understand that sometimes a product called “pet supplies rectal use” should really be marketed differently, but capitalism doesn’t care about your holes. It only cares about volume.
I kept it in for about forty-five minutes. The first five were terrifying. By minute thirty, I felt a strange kinship with the plastic bird-shaped bell thing that I will never be able to return because Walmart doesn’t take rectal-use returns. The thing didn’t make me see God, but it did remind me of an important life lesson: sometimes the products we buy for our pets are really buying for ourselves.
The verdict: it definitely fits. Whether it fits your soul is between you and your colon. Comfort: 4/10 (cold start, warm finish). Feasibility: 7/10 (once you commit, you’re committed). Danger: 9/10 (the fuzz on the end started off soft, but three minutes in I sneezed and literally saw Tim the manager from Bed Bath & Beyond appear before me to ask if I was okay). Rectal use score: 8.6 out of 10, but maybe I’m easy because my standards are currently on the second shelf of my nightstand next to an expired tube of Aspercreme.
Buy it? Skip it? Depends if your self-worth requires validation from a plastic toy that cost less than a burrito.
