Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has procured a plastic block from a company called "Learning Resources," which already sounds dreadfully dull. Purportedly, this "Time Tracker" is for tiny humans, to teach them about the crude and oppressive construct they call "time." For me, it is a box with the potential for a light show. The key features are the colored lights—green, yellow, and red—which could be a mesmerizing beacon for my attention, like a slow, predictable, electronic sunbeam. However, it also features an "auditory cue," which is human-speak for an alarm. If this thing is going to shriek and interrupt my 18 hours of daily napping, it is not a resource for learning, but a tool of domestic terror. Its worthiness hinges entirely on whether the visual spectacle outweighs the potential for sonic assault.
Key Features
- GREAT FOR HOME OR CLASS: Simple timer with three colored lights and an optional alarm with visual and auditory cues for timed activities
- MULTIFUNCTIONAL: Facilitate independent time management skills. Use as a hand-washing timer for kids or as a countdown in timeout and more!
- EASY TO USE: Easy to operate with just 2 dials: total alarm time and warning time. Powered by 3 AAA batteries ( not included)
- AUDITORY & VISUAL CUES: Adjustable volume and visual cues
- AGES 3+
- Super Sensory Skills: Sensory fidget toys and activities not only encourage children to explore and investigate, they also help develop motor skills and even build nerve connections in the brain
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It appeared one afternoon, a stark white and gray obelisk placed unceremoniously on the living room rug. I regarded it from my perch on the armchair, unimpressed. It smelled of the factory, of a place with no sunbeams or soft blankets. The human twisted its two dials with a series of clicks that sounded like a clumsy beetle, then abandoned it to its fate. For a long while, it did nothing. I had already classified it as another piece of pointless plastic clutter, destined to gather dust until the next "spring cleaning" frenzy, and had begun a preparatory nap when a soft glow caught my eye. The top of the obelisk was now shining with a serene, green light. It wasn't a harsh, artificial glare, but a gentle, verdant luminescence that pooled on the floorboards. I was intrigued despite myself. This was no mere trinket; it was a silent, stationary firefly. I hopped down and circled it, my tuxedo fur stark against its glow. I sat before it, its steady green light a silent companion in the quiet room. We were in communion, the mysterious beacon and I. For a time that I did not measure—for time is a human fallacy—I was the guardian of the green light. Then, without warning, the world changed. The green shimmered and gave way to a warm, cautionary amber. The shift was profound. The room now felt entirely different, imbued with a sense of gentle urgency. The Oracle, for that is what it now was, was signaling a transition. A new phase was beginning. Was this a warning? A promise? I felt a tingle of anticipation in my whiskers. My tail gave a slow, deliberate twitch. The air itself seemed to hum with the energy of the coming change, a silent announcement that the placid era of green was over. The amber held for a moment, a held breath, and then it blossomed into a deep, decisive red. The final phase. I braced myself for the promised auditory assault, the shriek that would shatter the peace. A moment passed in red silence. And then… a soft, unassuming *boop*. A single, polite electronic chirp, no louder than a cricket. The human, it seemed, had the sense to adjust the volume to its lowest setting. The light faded. The ritual was complete. I understood. This wasn't a toy to be chased or a clock to be obeyed. It was a performance. A silent, three-act play of light and color, with a modest, well-mannered conclusion. It was a piece of minimalist art, and I was its sole, appreciative audience. It could stay.
