Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a flat, gray plastic rectangle from a company called "Learning Resources," a name that already saps the joy from a room. Apparently, this device is supposed to make small humans better at "math" by having them poke at its buttons to solve problems against a timer. From my perspective, its only potential value lies in the "auditory feedback." While the silent, judgmental gaze of a clock is an insult to my leisurely lifestyle, the promise of beeps and boops holds a faint glimmer of interest. A new and unusual sound is always worth investigating, but I suspect this blinking brick will ultimately prove to be an unforgivable waste of the superior surfaces upon which I nap.
Key Features
- Encourages practice of operations (add/subtract or multiply/divide) and early algebraic skills related to equations and the commutative property
- Offers a 60–second timed mode and a low–pressure untimed mode, plus 3 levels of difficulty
- Reinforces arts of the equation through color–coded screen frames
- Provides positive, corrective feedback—both visual and auditory
- Homeschool supplies for ages 6+
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Provider placed the artifact on the rug between her feet, cooing about its "educational value." I observed from the safety of my velvet chaise lounge, tail twitching in mild irritation. It was an ugly, soulless thing—a "Minute Math Electronic Flash Card," she called it. She demonstrated its function to the empty air, pressing buttons that resulted in a series of monotonous beeps and a screen that flashed numbers. I closed my eyes, feigning a deep slumber. This was an insult to my intelligence, an object with no feathers, no string, and a scent of pure, unadulterated plastic. Later, I heard the tell-tale sounds from the other room. A high-pitched, cheerful *ding!* followed by my human's encouraging "Yes, that's it!" Then, a lower, more mournful *buh-bow*, and a sigh. Curiosity, that most troublesome of my instincts, began to gnaw at the edges of my nap. I slunk into the doorway, a gray shadow in the hall, to watch. The human was tapping away, a look of intense concentration on her face. *Ding! Ding! Buh-bow.* It was a conversation. A secret, coded language between my human and this plastic interloper. What were they plotting? A trip to the vet? A reduction in my salmon pâté allotment? The moment she left it unattended on the coffee table, I made my move. I leaped onto the table with the silence born of generations of hunters and stared down at the gray slab. It was dark, sleeping. I extended a single, perfect claw and gently depressed the largest button. The screen awoke, flashing "6 + 3 = ?" at me. An interrogation. I ignored the numbers—meaningless symbols—and focused on the tone. It was a question, a challenge. I pressed a random number. *Buh-bow.* The sound of failure. A low, mocking tone. I tried another. *Buh-bow.* And another. *Ding!* The cheerful sound vibrated through the table. It wasn't a question of right or wrong. It was a question of which button produced the pleasant sound. I spent the next ten minutes conducting my symphony of chaos. I had no interest in its "algebraic skills," but I was fascinated by its voice. I discovered a rhythm, a sequence of pokes and prods that could produce a frantic series of dings and boops, a frantic, electronic bird-call that echoed through the quiet house. My human rushed back in, a look of bewilderment on her face. My final verdict? As an educational tool, it is beneath me. As a musical instrument I can use to summon my staff at a moment's notice? It is a masterpiece of modern engineering. It stays.
