Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my primary human has acquired another garish plastic noisemaker, this one in a particularly offensive shade of teal, from a company called "LeapFrog"—a name that suggests an unfortunate level of amphibian optimism. Its alleged purpose is to entertain the tiny, loud human with a cacophony of songs about letters and weather, subjects I have long since mastered and find dreadfully dull. The lullaby function is a laughable attempt to replicate the profound peace of a sunbeam on a warm rug. However, my surveillance has revealed two features of mild interest: a Bluetooth function, which could theoretically be commandeered to stream high-fidelity recordings of sparrows, and a voice recorder. The potential to archive my own authoritative pronouncements and critiques for posterity presents a sliver of utility in what is otherwise a complete waste of batteries and space.
Key Features
- Get creative and record your voice or silly sounds; store up to three minutes of audio on each button, 30 minutes total
- Kids can get up and boogie to 10 active songs, then relax to 10 lullabies and classical music
- Sing along to 10 favorite children's songs, then play 10 learning songs about letters, counting, animals, the weather and more
- Bluetooth wireless technology lets you stream music, soundscapes and more from your own device
- Intended for ages 18+ months; requires 4 AA batteries; batteries included for demo purposes only; new batteries recommended for regular use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Unspeakable Teal Object arrived on a Tuesday, a day I usually reserve for deep contemplation of the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun. Its presence was an immediate affront. The tiny human, my designated tormentor, was given the device and proceeded to smash its buttons with sticky fingers, unleashing a series of offensively cheerful songs. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail twitching in profound irritation. It was a beacon of bad taste, a monument to mindless juvenilia. I had already dismissed it as another piece of plastic detritus destined to be lost under the furniture. Later, a strange quiet fell over the house. The tiny human was napping, and the larger one was preoccupied in another room. The Teal Object sat abandoned on the floor, silent. Curiosity, that base and often troublesome instinct, got the better of me. I hopped down and approached it with the cautious grace of a hunter. It smelled faintly of sugar and desperation. I recalled seeing the human press the large red button, followed by a stream of nonsensical cooing. I extended a single, perfect claw and pressed it. A small light blinked, expectantly. What could I say? What message could I, Pete, leave for this witless machine? A simple meow felt inadequate. I needed to convey the existential weight of my reality. I drew a breath and unleashed a sound from deep within my soul—not a plea for food, but a long, complex, warbling trill that spoke of ancient feline dynasties, of the injustice of closed doors, of the fleeting beauty of a moth’s flight. It was a symphony in a single utterance. I then batted the "play" arrow. And there it was. My voice, my art, echoed back to me with perfect clarity from the cheap plastic speaker. It was a digital ghost, a perfect replica of my very being. The large human eventually returned and played the recording. "Oh, listen to that!" she said to the other human. "The baby must have recorded a squeaky toy! How cute!" They were fools, of course. They could not comprehend the sheer genius they had witnessed. But it didn't matter. They saw a toy; I saw a vessel. This garish box was no longer an annoyance. It was my personal broadcast tower, a way to send my truth out into their ignorant world. It was utterly, unexpectedly, worthy of my genius. I would permit it to stay.
