Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired a large, plastic reptile under the mistaken impression that I, a creature of superior intellect, would be interested in rudimentary mathematics. This "Adding Alligator" from Fisher-Price is, ostensibly, for teaching tiny, clumsy humans how to count—a skill I mastered long ago in the context of treat distribution and seconds-until-dinner. Its garish colors and simplistic mechanism, where one presses its head to reveal a "sum," are an insult to my refined sensibilities. However, the ten included blocks, some of which are tastefully decorated with images of fish, do present a certain potential. They are of a size and weight that suggests they could be satisfyingly knocked from a high surface, one by one. The alligator itself may serve as a decent chin rest, but its educational ambitions are a complete waste of my napping schedule.
Key Features
- Alligator-themed preschool educational toy uses numbered stacking blocks to introduce counting, early math concepts, size & sequencing
- Double-sided blocks feature numbers along with fish or dots on each side to help kids count
- It all adds up! Stack the blocks up, then lower the alligator’s head to see the sum of the numbers revealed in the side slot
- Includes 10 stacking blocks that store in the alligator’s base
- This toy helps foster dexterity while encouraging a sense of independence for preschool kids ages 3 years and older
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in one of those loud, crinkly boxes my human so enjoys. She called it "Allie" and set the grinning green monstrosity on the rug between her feet, as if it were an offering. I observed from the arm of the sofa, giving my tuxedoed chest a slow, methodical wash to signal my profound disinterest. She stacked the colorful cubes on its back, chattering about numbers and addition, then pressed down on its head. A little tile with a "3" slid into view. She looked at me, her eyes wide with the misplaced hope of one who believes a cat can be "impressed." I narrowed my own in response. A cheap parlor trick. Later, when the apartment fell silent and the only light was the glow from the street filtering through the blinds, I descended. The plastic beast sat there, its vacant stare a challenge. Its back was empty now, the ten blocks stored neatly in its belly, a fact I had noted earlier. I circled it once, my tail twitching. A lesser feline might have batted at its wobbly head or chewed on a corner. But I am not a lesser feline. I saw not a toy, but a puzzle of dominance. Using a single, practiced claw, I hooked the edge of the storage bay door and slid it open. The blocks clattered softly onto the rug. I ignored the numbers. Numbers are for the service staff. I was drawn to the blocks adorned with fish. There were five of them. I began my work, not stacking them for some juvenile calculation, but arranging them. I was a curator, creating an exhibition. One block was placed a precise tail-length from the alligator’s snout. Another was set perpendicular to the first. I was building something abstract, a shrine to my own impeccable taste. It was a silent, deliberate act of defiance against the toy’s intended function. I was not adding; I was *arranging*. When my masterpiece was complete—a low, sprawling sculpture of piscine art—I regarded the alligator one last time. I gave its head a firm, deliberate tap with my paw. The mechanism whirred, but with no blocks on its back, the number slot remained empty. A void. Perfect. The beast had been stripped of its purpose, its mathematical soul hollowed out and replaced with my own aesthetic. It was now merely a pedestal for my art. Satisfied that I had won our silent battle of wits, I turned my back on it and leaped onto the sofa, leaving the monument to my genius for the human to discover in the morning. The blocks, at least, were worthy. The alligator was just a stage.
