Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired what they call "Baby's First Blocks." From my vantage point on the velvet armchair, it appears to be a garishly colored plastic bucket with a lid full of holes, accompanied by ten equally loud plastic shapes. The brand, Fisher-Price, has a certain reputation for creating objects that delight the very young and annoy the very sophisticated, such as myself. The alleged purpose is to teach a small, loud human about "shapes" and "motor skills." I see it differently. The bucket is a potential noise-maker and a waste of floor space, but the small, lightweight blocks… well, they have a certain potential for skittering across hardwood floors and disappearing under furniture, which could provide a brief, moderately amusing diversion from a busy napping schedule.
Key Features
- Set of 10 colorful blocks for baby to sort, stack and drop through the shape-sorter lid
- All blocks fit inside bucket for storage
- Easy-carry handle for take-along play
- Introduces baby to colors and shapes
- Helps foster fine motor skills and problem-solving for infants and toddlers ages 6 months and older
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The operation was presented to me as "playtime." A laughable concept. My human sat on the floor with the small, drooling creature that has recently become a fixture in my home, and demonstrated the objective: place the garish plastic shape into the corresponding hole in the lid of the bright red vault. The small one merely banged a blue square against the side, producing a dull, unsatisfying *thunk*. I watched from the top of the cat tree, my gray tail twitching in disdain. They sealed the ten pieces of treasure—the stars, the circles, the crosses—inside the vault and left it, unguarded, in the center of the room. A fatal error. I descended with the silence befitting a predator of my caliber. My target was not the treasure itself, not yet. It was the delivery system. I circled the red bucket, noting its construction. The lid was a puzzle for the simple-minded. My goal was far more direct: catastrophic structural failure. The handle, a flimsy loop of yellow plastic, presented itself as the perfect lever. I gave it a test nudge with my nose. The vault wobbled, and the plastic jewels inside rattled with a most tantalizing sound. The small human, my unwitting accomplice, pointed a chubby finger at me and shrieked with delight. It thought this was a performance. This was not a performance; it was a heist. Ignoring my audience, I braced myself and pushed my full, well-fed weight against the handle. The red tower leaned, hung suspended in the air for a perfect, dramatic moment, and then crashed onto its side. The impact was a glorious cacophony—a hollow *boom* from the bucket and a sharp *clack* as the lid popped clean off. The vault was breached. Treasure spilled across the polished wood floor like a broken rainbow. A yellow star slid to a perfect stop just before my paws. A red circle rolled in a gentle arc before coming to rest against the leg of the sofa. It was a masterpiece of controlled chaos. I selected the star, hooked it with a single, sharp claw, and with a flick of my paw, sent it flying. It skittered under the couch with the sound of a terrified beetle. The small human could have the bucket and its ridiculous lid. I had liberated the contents for a far nobler purpose. This Fisher-Price contraption, I concede, is a worthy addition to my kingdom, not as a toy, but as a vault that, when properly dismantled, provides excellent ammunition.
