Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have mistaken our home for a "learning annex" with this so-called "Robo Spider Kit" from a brand called Smithsonian, which I associate with dusty halls and long, boring field trips. The very idea that a toy requires tedious assembly by my staff is an immediate mark against it. I am to be entertained, not forced to wait while thumbs fumble with plastic legs. However, the premise of a motorized, eight-legged creature that moves on its own does have a sliver of potential. If, by some miracle, its movements are not a clumsy, clattering mockery of a true arachnid, it might provide a moment's distraction. Otherwise, it's just more plastic clutter destined to be ignored under the sofa, a waste of a perfectly good battery that could be powering a laser dot.
Key Features
- Build Your own Robot Spider
- Eight Multi-Jointed Legs duplicate the walking movement of real Spiders
- Motorized and Battery Operated
- S.T.E.M- Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math
- Age 8 and Up
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The affair began with an insulting period of neglect. My human, usually so attentive to my dietary and comfort-related needs, spent the better part of an afternoon hunched over the coffee table, surrounded by a mess of blue plastic twigs and tiny gears. The clicking and snapping sounds were all wrong; they lacked the promising crinkle of a treat bag or the satisfying thud of my food bowl being placed on its mat. I observed this folly from my velvet cushion, my tail giving a single, irritated flick. This was "S.T.E.M.," apparently, which I deduced stood for "Seriously Tedious Endeavor for Mammals." Finally, the monstrosity was complete. It stood on the hardwood floor, a garish blue carapace perched atop eight spindly legs, an affront to nature's design. It smelled of plastic and human frustration, not of anything remotely huntable. My human, beaming with misplaced pride, flipped a tiny switch on its underbelly. A low, offensive whirring began, and the thing lurched into motion. It wasn't the silent, terrifying creep of a cellar spider or the nimble darting of a wolf spider. No, this was a clumsy, rhythmic tap-dance, a mechanical march across my domain. My initial disdain began to curdle into a strange sort of analytical curiosity. This was not prey. This was an intruder, an automaton with a predictable, programmable soul. My tail did not thrash with the thrill of the hunt, but twitched with the slow calculus of a general observing enemy maneuvers. I slipped from my cushion, my paws silent on the floorboards. I let it complete two full crossings of the living room, memorizing the cadence of its steps, the slight pause as its internal gears shifted. This creature wasn't a test of my speed, but of my timing and intellect. It was a puzzle box that moved. On its third pass, I executed my plan. I did not pounce wildly. I simply stepped into its path, a dapper gray-and-white shadow. As it approached, I extended a single, perfectly weighted paw, my white-gloved digits immaculate, and descended it upon the robot's plastic chassis, pinning it to the floor. The legs whirred uselessly against the wood, its mechanical protest futile against my effortless superiority. I had not killed it; I had *solved* it. I held it there for a moment, savoring the silent victory, then lifted my paw and walked away with an air of finality. It was a passable diversion, a mechanical whetstone for my superior intellect. I might grant it an audience again, should I ever feel my strategic mind growing dull.
