Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured a garish plastic reptile from the notorious Fisher-Price, a purveyor of loud and rudimentary amusements for the smaller, less sophisticated members of this household. Its supposed purpose is to teach the tiny human about numbers using a collection of blocks, which are then "magically" added up when its head is pressed. Frankly, the educational aspect is a complete bore. However, my discerning eye notes two features of potential merit: the ten small, lightweight blocks are of a supreme size and shape for batting across the hardwood floors and losing under the sofa, and the mechanical head-bobbing action might provide a moment's distraction from an otherwise tedious afternoon. The illustrated fish on the blocks are a cruel mockery of the real thing, but I suppose I can't have everything.
Key Features
- Alligator-themed preschool educational toy uses numbered stacking blocks to introduce counting, early math concepts, size & sequencing
- Double-sided blocks feature numbers along with fish or dots on each side to help kids count
- It all adds up! Stack the blocks up, then lower the alligator’s head to see the sum of the numbers revealed in the side slot
- Includes 10 stacking blocks that store in the alligator’s base
- This toy helps foster dexterity while encouraging a sense of independence for preschool kids ages 3 years and older
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived in a box far more interesting than its contents, a vessel I claimed immediately. But once the humans extracted the creature, a grinning emerald monstrosity, my interest soured. They called it the "Adding Alligator," a name as clumsy as the tiny human it was intended for. I watched from my perch on the armchair as the large human showed the small one how to pile the colorful blocks onto its back. Stack, stack, stack. Then, a press of the head, a dull *click*, and a little wheel turned in a slot on its side, revealing a number. The humans seemed thrilled by this pedestrian parlor trick. I yawned and showed them my back. Later, under the silver glow of moonlight, I descended to investigate the silent reptile. The blocks were scattered, as is their fate. I nudged one with my nose. It had a "3" on it and a crude drawing of three fish. An insult to both mathematics and art. I ignored it and batted another, a "5," skittering it into the dark recesses under the television stand. A worthy tribute to the void. But the alligator itself remained, stoic and smug. I pawed at its head. Nothing. It was a partnership, it seemed. The beast would not perform its trick without the tribute of blocks. This presented a challenge, a riddle of physics and will. I, a being of supreme grace, could not stack. But I could push. I nudged and shoved, knocking a block with a "2" and another with a "1" into the stacking groove by sheer, determined clumsiness. They sat askew, a chaotic little tower. This, I decided, was a sufficient offering. I stood on my hind legs, placed a soft but firm paw on the alligator’s head, and pushed. *Click.* The wheel turned. The number "3" appeared. A flicker of understanding sparked in my magnificent brain. This wasn't a toy. It was a machine of consequence. An engine of cause and effect. I have decided the Alligator may stay. It is not a plaything for me, not in the traditional sense. It is a puzzle box, a silent collaborator in the grand experiment of gravity and momentum. My game is not with the blocks themselves, but with the machine. Can I arrange them? Can I activate the mechanism? The numbers it reveals are irrelevant scribbles, but the act of solving its physical requirements is a brief, satisfying diversion. It has earned its floor space as a monument to my superior problem-solving skills, a silent green witness to the fact that even the simplest human contraptions are, ultimately, just toys for a clever cat.
