Roller Derby Fun Roll Adjustable Roller Skates for Beginners, Boys & Girls

From: Roller Derby

Pete's Expert Summary

My human presented a large, colorful box containing what appear to be wheeled torture devices for the smaller, more chaotic human that occasionally infests my territory. The brand, "Roller Derby," sounds needlessly aggressive, and the so-called "tractor skate" design confirms my suspicion that these are built for noise and clumsiness, not elegance. They are apparently adjustable, a concession to the graceless, uncontrolled growth of human kittens. While the low center of gravity is a pathetic attempt to replicate a feline's innate balance, I must confess a flicker of interest in the "extra-cushy padded liner." It might, if removed from the ghastly plastic shell, serve as a passable secondary nap cushion. Otherwise, the entire contraption seems like a loud, disruptive waste of perfectly good silence.

Key Features

  • SIZING Outgrow no more! Adjust up to 4 sizes at the twist of a lever. Small (7J-11J) or Medium (11J-2)
  • DESIGN Learn to skate with the rugged and fun "tractor skate" design
  • COMFORT Strong and supportive boot with extra-cushy padded liner for comfort and control
  • SAFETY Low center of gravity for more balance and safety means more skating and less falling
  • WHEELS Indoor/outdoor wheels made of quality urethane. Grippy and smooth on most surfaces

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The cacophony began on a Tuesday. The small human, my primary source of sudden noises and existential dread, was gifted these plastic monstrosities. She strapped them to her feet with the help of my primary staff member and proceeded to flail about the hardwood floor like a newborn giraffe on a frozen pond. The whirring of the urethane wheels was a low-grade insult to the ears, and I retreated to the top of the cat tree to pass judgment from a safe altitude. It was, as I suspected, a pathetic display. I dismissed the skates as another piece of colorful junk destined to be tripped over in the dark. Later that evening, long after the small human had been put to bed, I descended for my nightly patrol. There, abandoned mid-hallway, sat a single skate. It loomed in the moonlight, a monument to poor coordination. My curiosity, a trait I usually keep under strict control, got the better of me. I padded closer, my gray tuxedo sleek in the dim light. The object smelled of plastic and frustrated child. I gave one of the wheels a tentative pat. It spun with a surprisingly smooth, silent *whirrrrr*, a much more satisfying sound without a flailing biped attached. Intrigued, I peered into the boot. The "extra-cushy" liner beckoned. It looked dark, enclosed, and surprisingly comfortable—a fortified sleeping chamber. Gathering my considerable dignity, I leveraged myself over the edge and slid inside. It was a perfect fit. The padding enveloped me in a secure, plush embrace. I was contemplating a brief nap in my new fortress when my staff member emerged from the shadows, likely for a midnight snack. He saw me nestled in the skate and let out a soft chuckle. "Pete, you weirdo," he whispered, and gave the skate a gentle nudge with his foot. And then, the world changed. I was in motion. Not walking, not running, but *gliding*. The hallway transformed into a silent, gleaming runway. The smooth wheels carried my chariot forward with an elegance I hadn't thought possible. I was no longer a cat in a skate; I was a king on a mobile throne, surveying my domain from a low, swift-moving vantage point. The human had, in his bumbling way, revealed the toy's true purpose. It wasn't for clumsy children. It was a personal transport for a feline of distinction. I decided then and there: the wheeled device was worthy, on the condition that my staff remain on-call to provide propulsion.