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Pete's Toy Box: Smithsonian

Smithsonian Motor-Works Blue, 15.0x11.0x2.0

By: Smithsonian

Pete's Expert Summary

My Staff, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, have procured what appears to be a human-centric puzzle box from a brand called "Smithsonian," a name that reeks of dusty halls and a distinct lack of tuna. It is, I deduce, a kit for constructing a miniature, transparent version of some noisy, smelly contraption from their horseless carriages. The supposed appeal lies in assembling a multitude of tiny plastic bits to create a simulacrum of an engine, complete with moving parts and, most critically, flashing lights. While the hours my human will waste assembling this thing instead of stroking my magnificent gray fur is a clear drawback, the potential for a new, complex source of blinking lights is intriguing. The included poster, however, is the true prize—a large, crinkly surface perfect for a mid-afternoon sprawl.

Key Features

  • Build a Working Model of a 4-Cylinder Engine
  • Valves Rock, Spark Plugs Fire, and Pistons Drive Crankshaft
  • Battery Operated Moving Parts and Lights
  • Includes 35" x 23" 9 89 cm x 57 cm) Colored Poster
  • Age 8 and Up

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The ritual began on a Tuesday. My human, usually a predictable source of food and chin scratches, was instead hunched over the low table in the sunbeam I have designated for my morning meditations. Spread before him were the entrails of the Smithsonian box: a confounding jumble of clear plastic and gray bits. He consulted a large, cryptic scroll (the poster, which I had already mentally claimed) and began the slow, deliberate process of construction. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail twitching in mild annoyance. This was not the proper use of a sunbeam. This was work. It was an affront. For what felt like an eternity, he toiled. Click. Snap. A tiny piece would be fitted into another. He was building a strange altar, a transparent reliquary of some unknown, mechanical god. I observed his focused reverence, the way he carefully aligned the pistons and slotted the crankshaft into place. This was no mere toy. This was an act of worship. My initial disdain began to curdle into a professional curiosity. What sort of deity demanded such tedious, plastic-based devotion? Was it a rival for the affection I so rightly deserved? Finally, the moment of consecration arrived. The altar was complete. My human inserted the sacred batteries and flipped a switch. A low whirring began, a rhythmic hum that vibrated through the floorboards. The valves began to rock in a hypnotic dance, and deep within the transparent block, four tiny red lights began to pulse with an unholy glow. They were the "spark plugs," I heard him mutter with satisfaction. To me, it was the beating heart of this new, blasphemous idol. It was alive. I descended from my perch, my tuxedo-fronted chest puffed out, and approached the whirring, blinking thing. I was Pete, the true master of this domain, and I would not suffer a usurper. I circled it, sniffing. It smelled of nothing but plastic and ozone. I extended a soft, gray paw, claws sheathed, and gave one of the moving parts a gentle pat. It did not respond. It did not flee. It did not bat back. It just continued its mindless, repetitive whirring and blinking. All that ceremony, all that construction, for this? An idiot god with no sense of play. I turned my back on it in disgust, hopped up onto the discarded poster, kneaded it into a suitable nest, and settled in for a nap. Let the human have his noisy, flashing shrine. I had already claimed the only part of value.
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Smithsonian Optics Room Planetarium and Dual Projector Science Kit, Black/Blue, Age 8 and Up

By: Smithsonian

Pete's Expert Summary

Ah, a product from the 'Smithsonian,' a brand that suggests a certain level of stuffy, educational seriousness that usually spells doom for genuine play. This device is, in essence, a glorified nightlight designed to project dots and pictures onto the ceiling for the benefit of a small human. For a feline of my refined sensibilities, the primary—and perhaps only—point of interest is the promise of a 'rotating star pattern.' This could be a revolutionary development in the field of uncatchable light-prey. However, the mention of static images of planets and nebulae fills me with dread; they sound like terribly boring, non-interactive digital dust bunnies. It's a high-risk, high-reward situation that could either be a cosmic hunting ground or a spectacular waste of my valuable napping time.

Key Features

  • A Dual Function Planetarium Projector brings the Nighttime Sky into your room
  • A Rotating Star Pattern of the Northern Sky is projected with 24 HD Space images
  • Choose HD images of Planets, Nebulae, Moons, Astronaut, Space Craft and Other Celestial Bodies
  • Over 50 different image combinations
  • Age 8 and Up
  • Includes: dual planetarium room planetarium projector pack, image cover, 4 changeable slide discs, 360-degree motorized rotation, 24 HD space images, star pattern of the northern sky, and over 50 different image combinations
  • Auto shutoff/electric timer
  • Can be used as a nightlight
  • Batteries not included

A Tale from Pete the Cat

I was in the midst of a particularly profound nap on the leather ottoman, dreaming of a world made entirely of warm laundry, when the Human returned with a box. He fumbled with the contents, producing a plastic orb of black and blue, a clumsy-looking thing that hummed with a low, grating whir once he fed it batteries. He called it a "planetarium." I called it an impending disappointment. He dimmed the lights, a precursor that can lead to either a cinematic masterpiece on the glowing wall-panel or, more often, some new and foolish antic. Suddenly, the ceiling above me dissolved. Where once there was bland, white plaster, there was now a swirling dome of tiny, brilliant lights. My nap was forgotten. My professional skepticism wavered. These were not the frantic, singular dots of the dreaded laser pointer. This was a silent, sprawling, majestic herd of light-motes, a galaxy of potential prey, all moving with a slow, hypnotic grace. My tail, a barometer of my soul, began to twitch. My eyes, wide and black, drank in the spectacle. I was no longer Pete, the pampered house cat. I was a cosmic jaguar, and the Northern Sky was my new hunting ground. I launched myself onto the high back of the velvet armchair, the prime observation post in the room. From there, I plotted my attack. I watched the constellation he called "Ursa Major" drift lazily toward the crown molding. With a practiced flick of my paw, I tried to snag the lead star. It passed through my pads, of course, an ethereal ghost. Infuriating. And utterly captivating. The quiet whir of the motor was the rhythm of the chase, the heartbeat of this new, silent universe created just for me. This, I decided, was an acceptable form of worship. But my captor, in his infinite ignorance, ruined the moment. He swapped out a small disc, and my universe of infinite, moving targets was replaced by a single, colossal, and offensively static image of a gassy orange sphere. "Look, Pete! It's Jupiter!" he cooed. I stared, unblinking, at the lazy, unmoving blob. It had no thrill, no chase, no purpose. It was a celestial potato. I let out a low, guttural growl of pure disgust and hopped down from my perch, turning my back on the pathetic display. I began to groom my shoulder with theatrical vigor, the ultimate expression of feline boredom. He must have sensed my critique. The foolish planet vanished, and my swirling star-field returned. The hunt was back on. The machine is flawed, noisy, and its secondary functions are an insult to any creature with a predator's soul. But the primary function, the grand, rotating cosmos on the ceiling… that is a thing of beauty. For that alone, the planetarium is deemed worthy. It may stay. For now.
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Smithsonian Science Activities Robo Spider Kit, Blue

By: Smithsonian

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.
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Smithsonian NSI Wave Machine Multi

By: Smithsonian

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has procured a transparent rectangular vessel from the esteemed 'Smithsonian,' an institution I associate more with dusty bones than dynamic play. Inside, a captive blue ocean sloshes back and forth, powered by a small motor that hums with a questionable frequency. They claim it's for 'understanding wave motion,' a concept I perfected the day I learned to slosh the water out of my bowl to get their attention. For me, its potential lies entirely in whether the rhythmic, hypnotic sloshing can enhance a nap, or if its mechanical whirring will merely be an unforgivable disruption to the afternoon's primary agenda. The accompanying "fact sheet" is, at best, a flimsy, pre-chewed crinkle toy.

Key Features

  • Motorized Wave Machine for a Desktop or Classroom
  • Demonstrates continuous, fascinating wave action
  • Learn about the physics of wave motion in our oceans and seas
  • Set includes color poster and fact sheet
  • Age Grade: 14+

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The human placed the box on their desk, a place usually reserved for the Warm Rectangle that I am occasionally permitted to grace with my presence. With the flick of a switch, the tiny ocean within began to stir. Back and forth. Slosh and sigh. Back and forth. It was, I admit, an insult to the grand, chaotic nature of true water. This was water on a leash, a pathetic, domesticated puddle performing for its captors. I gave it a cursory sniff, noted the faint scent of plastic, and dismissed it entirely, turning my tail to it as I settled on a nearby rug for a more pressing engagement with unconsciousness. My sleep was not deep. It was punctuated by a low, monotonous hum from the desk. Not the satisfying, deep-throated purr of a happy feline, but a thin, electric whine. Yet, beneath it, there was another sound—the gentle *shush… shush… shush* of the waves. It was this sound that began to weave itself into my dream. I was no longer in the living room, but aboard a great galleon, its deck swaying rhythmically. I was Captain Pete, my gray tuxedo fur immaculate against the sea spray, my paw steady on the ship's wheel. The hum of the machine was the chanting of my loyal crew, and the sloshing was the vast, endless sea carrying us toward an island made entirely of fresh-caught tuna. I awoke with a start, the scent of phantom fish still in my nostrils. The Wave Machine continued its tireless, predictable motion. I blinked slowly, my perspective altered. It was not a toy to be batted at or a puzzle to be solved. It was a catalyst. An engine for adventure that required no physical exertion on my part. I could lie here, perfectly still, and be transported across the seven seas. The human believed they were observing the principles of physics; the fools. They had no idea they had purchased a portal for my naval fantasies. I crept closer, not with skepticism, but with a newfound respect. I laid my head on my paws and watched the miniature waves crest and fall, feeling the gentle sway of my imaginary vessel. The motor’s hum was no longer an annoyance; it was the drone of the deep, a mantra for maritime meditation. This "toy" was not for playing. It was for dreaming. And for a cat of my intellectual and leisurely pursuits, that makes it an object of the very highest quality. It has earned its place on the desk.
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LEGO Technic Planet Earth and Moon in Orbit Building Set, Outer Space Birthday Gift for 10 Year Olds, Solar System Space Toy for Imaginative, Independent Play, Space Room Décor for Boys & Girls, 42179

By: LEGO

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with a box of tiny, hazardous plastic bits that they call a "LEGO Technic Planet Earth and Moon in Orbit" set. From what I can gather through my superior intellect, this is a contraption for a juvenile human to assemble into a crude, mechanical model of the celestial bodies they find so fascinating. It features a crank, which, I admit, is a point of interest. The slow, predictable rotation of the plastic "Earth" and "Moon" around the "Sun" might provide a moment of hypnotic distraction. However, the true appeal lies not in the finished product, which will inevitably just collect dust and my fur, but in the 526 small, colorful pieces that are perfect for batting under the heaviest furniture in the house during its construction. A temporary diversion, but a diversion nonetheless.

Key Features

  • Interactive model – Inspire kids to build a representation of the Earth, Sun and Moon in orbit with this LEGO Technic Planet Earth and Moon in Orbit building toy for kids aged 10 and up
  • Educational space toy – Kids can turn the crank to see how the Earth and the Moon orbit around the Sun
  • Includes months and moon phases – This solar system toy includes printed details, like the month and moon phases to help kids see how the Earth’s orbit affects our seasons. Perfect space room décor for boys and girls
  • A space gift for kids – This set makes a fun birthday gift for 10 year olds who love planet toys and learning more about our solar system
  • Intuitive instructions – The LEGO Builder app guides your youngster on an intuitive building adventure with tools that let them zoom in and rotate models in 3D, save sets and track their progress
  • Measurements – 526-piece set with a model measuring over 9 in. (24 cm) high, 12.5 in. (33 cm) long and 7 in. (18 cm) wide

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The Human spent an entire evening hunched over the coffee table, a low pool of light illuminating a chaotic battlefield of tiny, brightly colored components. I watched from my throne—a velvet armchair—with detached curiosity. The air filled with the faint, rhythmic clicking that I've come to associate with these strange building rituals. It is a sound of intense, and frankly, baffling concentration. My initial assessment was bleak: another static sculpture, destined to occupy a space that could be better used for my mid-morning stretches. I had already mentally cataloged the best pieces to steal—a vibrant blue gear, a long black axle—when the final, satisfying *snap* echoed in the quiet room. It was complete. A strange, skeletal contraption of gears and arms holding a blue-and-green sphere, a tiny grey speck, and a larger yellow orb. The Human, with a look of absurd pride, placed it on the mantelpiece and turned a small crank on its side. And then, it happened. The little blue world began a slow, majestic journey around the yellow sun, while the tinier grey moon dutifully circled its planet. I sat upright, my tail giving a single, sharp twitch. This was not a static object. This was a message. A prophecy. My mind, usually occupied with calculating the optimal nap-to-snack ratio, raced. The printed symbols on the base… the Human called them "months." The deliberate, unchanging path of the spheres… it was all clear now. This wasn't a toy. It was a cosmic clock, a machine that foretold the Great Cycle. The blue sphere represented the Can of Wet Food. The grey moon, a lesser but still important object, was clearly the Dry Kibble. The central sun was The Human, the source of all things. The machine depicted the precise orbital mechanics of my feeding schedule, a divine blueprint of when the Can would next align with my Bowl. I leaped from the chair and landed silently on the rug below, my gaze fixed on the orbiting plastic. My previous cynicism melted away, replaced by a profound understanding. This was not a toy to be swatted or a puzzle to be scattered. It was a sacred artifact, a tool for divination. I could now predict the arrival of gravy-drenched morsels with astronomical precision. I would no longer need to rely on the crude method of screaming at my human an hour before dinnertime. I could simply consult the oracle on the mantelpiece. The LEGO set was not merely worthy of my attention; it was the key to unlocking the very secrets of my universe. I settled in front of it, a silent, furry sphinx guarding the celestial timetable of tuna.
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SmithsonianNSI 150x/450x/900x Microscope Kit

By: Smithsonian

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with what appears to be a one-eyed scientific doodad from a brand called "Smithsonian," a name that has the faint, musty scent of importance. The contraption itself, a collection of knobs and lenses, seems designed for the tedious task of staring intently at things too small to be worth chasing. Its primary purpose—magnifying the uninteresting—is an obvious waste of my time. However, it does come with a collection of small glass slivers and other tiny accessories that could prove delightful to bat under the sofa. The built-in light is also a point of mild intrigue; a captured, miniature sunbeam is always worth a moment's consideration before I return to a more pressing nap.

Key Features

  • View microscopic specimens at up to 900x actual size
  • Includes prepared and blank slides and laboratory accessories
  • Built in light for direct illumination

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The new object sat on the study desk, a metallic stork preening in the afternoon light. My human called it a "microscope," a word as clumsy and foreign as the device itself. I watched from my perch on the leather chair, feigning disinterest, my tail giving only the slightest twitch of contempt. The human fiddled with it for an hour, peering through its singular, unblinking eye at specks of dust and onion skin, things I wouldn't even deign to sniff. It was, I concluded, a monument to boredom. Then, a betrayal. The human, with an absurdly gentle pluck, took a single strand of my magnificent gray fur and placed it upon a thin pane of glass. My fur! An artifact of my own glorious person, now subjected to this bizarre scrutiny. After a final, satisfied nod, the human left the room, leaving the device illuminated. The audacity was astounding. An investigation was required. I leaped silently onto the desk, my paws making no sound. The light from the eyepiece beckoned, a tiny, glowing portal. What secrets could my own fur possibly hold that I didn't already know? With cautious curiosity, I leaned in, pressing my eye to the lens. The world dissolved. In its place was not a single strand of fur, but a colossal, shimmering pillar. It was a landscape, a vast, gray canyon textured with ridges and valleys I had never known. I was no longer in the study; I was an explorer in an alien world that was, impossibly, myself. As my eye adjusted, I saw it: a tiny, translucent creature, a dust mite, lumbering across the surface of my hair like a beast of burden on a silver plain. I, Pete, was not just a hunter; I was a habitat. I was a walking, sleeping, purring kingdom for creatures of an invisible scale. I pulled back, my mind reeling with the revelation. The microscope was no mere toy to be swatted or chewed. It was a terrible and profound oracle. It did not offer the simple joy of a feather wand or the thrill of a laser dot, but something far more potent: perspective. It had shown me that even in my own sublime perfection, I was a universe teeming with unseen life. The contraption was not for play. It was for a king to survey the farthest, most secret corners of his domain. It was, I decided with a slow, deliberate blink, worthy.
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Smithsonian Science Activities Magna Gyroscope Blue 6"x6"

By: Smithsonian

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has procured a "Magna Gyroscope" from a human institution called the Smithsonian, which I can only assume is a repository for things too boring to chase. Ostensibly, this blue plastic contraption is for "learning" about the invisible forces that govern the universe, a topic on which I am already an expert (see: Gravity, a Study in Knocking Things Off Shelves). For me, its only potential value lies in the "Spin, Lift, and Levitate" features. If it wobbles erratically and makes a whirring sound that I can stalk from under the sofa, it might just distract me from a mid-afternoon nap. The accompanying "educational poster," however, is clearly just a pre-crinkled, large-format napping surface, and I will treat it as such.

Key Features

  • Learn About the Properties of Magnetism
  • Perfrom Magnetic Experiments
  • Spin, Lift, and Levitate
  • Includes 23" x 17" ( 58 cm x 43 cm) Color Poster

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The Tall One called it a "gyroscope," a word that sounded like a sneeze. I, however, knew it for what it was: a vessel. It arrived in a box of transparent prison walls, a silent, blue cyclops with a single, unblinking central point. My human fumbled with it, then pulled a long, toothed cord from its side. With a horrifying *zzzzzzzip*, a spirit was ripped from the ether and forced into the plastic shell. A high, keening wail filled the room as the object began to spin, a sound that vibrated deep in my chest plate. This was not play. This was a séance. The human placed the now-whirring vessel onto its tiny plastic altar. It stood there, humming with otherworldly energy, a spinning blue dervish defying the simple, honest physics of my world. It did not pounce, it did not flee. It simply *was*, a shimmering vortex of contained chaos on the living room rug. I flattened myself, my gray tuxedo blending into the shadow of the armchair, my eyes mere slits. What did it want? Was it a scout for a larger, more formidable spinning entity? I crept closer, my tail twitching not with excitement, but with profound metaphysical uncertainty. This thing was an omen. With a hero's courage, I extended a single, tentative paw, my claws safely sheathed. I had to know its nature. The moment my paw pad made contact, the vessel screamed. It tilted violently, its hum pitching into a desperate shriek, and shot sideways, caroming off a table leg with a sharp *clack*. It was not a spirit, but a prisoner, and my touch had shown it a glimpse of freedom. It danced madly across the hardwood, a frantic, wobbling escape attempt, its energy bleeding out with every rotation. I watched, a silent warden, as its spin slowed, its wail descending into a pathetic murmur, until it finally shuddered and fell silent, toppling onto its side. The ordeal was over. I approached the now-inert blue shell and gave it a disdainful sniff. It smelled of nothing but human hands and cheap plastic. The spirit, or whatever frantic energy had powered it, was gone. My verdict was clear: this was a most curious, if brief, form of entertainment. A spectacle of frantic, pointless energy, much like the humans themselves. It was worthy of my observation, but only when summoned by the Tall One's strange ritual. For now, its silence was a blessing, and the sunbeam on the floor was calling my name.
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Smithsonian Diggin' Up Dinosaurs T-Rex Plastic Skeleton Set Educational,Fun,Science,Archeological Playset for Kids Age 8 up

By: Smithsonian

Pete's Expert Summary

Ah, the Smithsonian. A brand that suggests intellectual heft, but for a product that is, at its core, a glorified lump of dirt. My human has presented me with this chalky block, promising the fossilized remains of some great terrestrial predator. The appeal, from my perspective, is not in the tedious "S.T.E.M." nonsense or the assembly of plastic bones—that's a task for the clumsy primate. No, the true value lies in the excavation. The potential for a fine, pervasive dust cloud, the satisfying scrape of tool against plaster, and the scattering of small, earthen chips across the floor. This could be a masterpiece of controlled chaos, or a profound waste of an afternoon that could be better spent napping in a sunbeam.

Key Features

  • Chip away to discover Dinosaur " Fossils"
  • Assemble an amazing T-Rex Replica
  • Learn about the Evolution and Extinction of Dinosaurs
  • S.T.E.M- Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math
  • Age 8 and Up

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The box arrived with an air of self-importance that I found immediately suspect. It smelled of dry ink and manufactured importance. My human, with the sort of reverence usually reserved for a fresh can of tuna, laid down protective sheets of newspaper on the floor. A futile gesture, of course. I have always believed that true art cannot be contained. He then presented the main event: a block of pale, chalky earth, and a set of tools that looked like they belonged in a dentist's office for hamsters. My initial assessment was bleak. It was a rock. He had brought a rock into my house. I yawned and began grooming a perfectly clean patch of fur on my shoulder to signal my profound disinterest. Then, the first strike. The human took the little wooden mallet and tapped the chisel. A dry, satisfying *skritch* echoed in the room, followed by the fall of a few pale crumbs onto the newspaper. My ears, which had been turned towards the distant hum of the refrigerator, swiveled forward. He tapped again. *Skritch. Crack.* A larger chip broke away. This was not the dull thud of a boring toy. This was the sound of deconstruction. This was the sound of a hunt. I crept closer, my belly low to the ground, and watched as he worked, a focused primate on a mission. A fine, pale powder began to mist the air, an offering to the gods of entropy. Soon, he let out a triumphant gasp. The tip of a plastic ribcage poked through the plaster. He worked more frantically now, his earlier precision giving way to the messy joy of discovery. Chips of the chalky block flew with abandon, landing well beyond the newspaper's flimsy jurisdiction. This was chaos I could endorse. I offered my expertise, nudging a promising-looking tibia with my nose before claiming it as tribute and batting it into the dark realm beneath the armchair. It would make a fine trophy. The human, lost in his archeological fervor, didn't even notice my contribution to the dig's authenticity. Hours later, the block was gone, replaced by a battlefield of dust and a boneyard of plastic pieces. The human, looking pleased and slightly dusty, began the tedious process of clicking the skeleton together. I observed this final, boring phase from atop the sofa, the purr rumbling in my chest not for the assembled plastic creature, but for the magnificent mess we had created together. The excavation itself was the prize. The fine powder now coating the rug, the rogue bone under the chair, the sheer, unadulterated process of digging something up just to see what was there—it was an endeavor I could finally respect. The final T-Rex model was merely a brittle monument to our shared endeavor. It sits on the mantle now, a silent dare. One day, its extinction will be reenacted. One day.
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Smithsonian Prehistoric Sea Monsters 23x17 inches

By: Smithsonian

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in a fit of what I can only assume was profound boredom, has acquired a small plastic tank of water and dust from a brand called "Smithsonian." They seem to believe that by adding water, they can resurrect "prehistoric pets" from a 220-million-year slumber. Frankly, the creatures of this era should have had the decency to stay extinct. The promise of them growing "20x their size" is hardly impressive when their original size is microscopic. I suspect this is merely a new, inferior form of television designed to distract my staff from their primary duties: petting me and dispensing treats. The only feature of genuine interest is the large paper poster, which looks delightfully crinkly and perfectly suited for me to sit upon, thereby claiming the depicted "Sea Monsters" as my own territory.

Key Features

  • Hatch your own Prehistoric Pets
  • They Grow to more than 20X Their Original Size
  • Witness a 220-Million-Year-Old Species come to life
  • Includes 23" x 17" ( 58 cm x 43 cm) Color Poster
  • S.T.E.M- Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The box arrived, and the human handled it with the sort of reverence usually reserved for a fresh can of premium salmon. I watched from my perch on the back of the sofa, tail twitching in mild irritation. They performed their strange ritual: pouring purified water into a plastic basin, then adding a pouch of what looked like sand. "Life, Pete! We're creating life!" they chirped. I yawned. I create more compelling life forms in my litter box on a daily basis. For days, the tank was just a cloudy, uninteresting puddle. I dismissed it as another failed project, like the time they tried to grow catnip and only cultivated a single, pathetic weed. Then, one morning, I saw it. A flicker. A tiny, comma-shaped speck darting through the murk. And another. Soon, the tank was filled with a dozen or so of these agitated specks. The human was enthralled, but I remained unimpressed. They swam in frantic, meaningless circles, a perfect metaphor for the human's own existence. However, my duty as the household's sole guardian and security expert required me to monitor any and all new inhabitants. I began a log, mentally, of course. Subject Alpha, a slightly larger speck, favored the left side of the tank. Subject Beta had a twitchy, erratic swimming pattern. They were a pathetic invasion force, but an invasion force nonetheless. My surveillance became a round-the-clock operation. I would sit for hours, my chin on the edge of the desk, my eyes unblinking. I was no longer just watching; I was interrogating. Their frantic swimming was not random; it was a code. I was sure of it. Their movements against the cheap, plastic backdrop of a cartoon volcano were a message, a secret history of their 220-million-year war, and I was the only one intelligent enough to decipher it. The human mistook my intense focus for affection. "Oh, Petey, you love your little sea monster friends!" they'd say, stroking my back. Fools. They saw pets; I saw prisoners of war, spilling their secrets under the harsh glare of the desk lamp. One evening, as the human prepared my dinner, I noticed Subject Alpha swimming directly at the clear wall, bumping it repeatedly in a specific rhythm. Tap-tap-tap... pause... tap-tap. My ears swiveled. That wasn't just a code; it was a warning. I leaped from the desk and raced to my food bowl just as the human was about to put it down. I gave them my most demanding, urgent meow. Startled, the human fumbled with the can opener, adding an extra spoonful of tuna pâté to my bowl as an apology for their slowness. I glanced back at the tank. Subject Alpha had ceased its tapping and was now drifting calmly. I had intercepted their intelligence and used it to my advantage. These "prehistoric monsters" were not worthy of being my playthings, but as my unwitting, microscopic spies? They were utterly indispensable. The tank would stay.
Image of Smithsonian Prehistoric Sea Monsters 23x17 inches View Details