Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe my opinion is required on this... *thing*. Very well. From what I can gather, it is a wheeled contraption for the small, loud, and unsteady variety of human. It boasts a "5-in-1" capability, which sounds suspiciously like five different ways to disrupt my nap. The primary features appear to be a seat, wheels, and a rather tall handle for the larger human to act as a chauffeur. While the idea of being pushed around by my staff is inherently appealing, the intended user is a significant drawback. However, its "quiet wheels" are a point in its favor, as is the elegant cream color, which wouldn't clash terribly with my fur. The "safety bar" surrounding the seat looks less like a safety feature and more like the arms of a rather promising throne. It might be a worthy chariot, or it might be a noisy piece of junk; the verdict depends entirely on who is doing the riding.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box it arrived in was, I must admit, of a superior quality. Sturdy, spacious, with excellent corners for rubbing my face against. I gave it a solid 8/10. What came out of the box, however, was another matter entirely. My human, with much fumbling and referencing of paper scrolls, assembled a three-wheeled object of cream-colored plastic and metal. "It's a tricycle, Pete!" she announced, as if I were some common alley cat who had never seen an overly engineered piece of baby equipment before. I yawned, displaying my disinterest with a theatrical jaw-crack, and went back to supervising a sunbeam. My skepticism was well-founded. The human attempted to place the Small One—the squealing, grabby creature they dote on—into the contraption. This resulted in a great deal of noise and flailing, none of which improved the room's ambiance. I retreated under the sofa to wait out the storm. Later, after the house had fallen blessedly silent, I emerged. The tricycle sat alone in the center of the living room, a monument to my human's questionable spending habits. I circled it cautiously. The wheels were, as advertised, surprisingly silent as I nudged one with my nose. I batted a pedal. It spun listlessly. A mild, fleeting amusement. Then, my eyes fell upon the seat, encircled by that plastic safety bar. It wasn't a cage. It was a royal enclosure. A command balcony. With a leap far more graceful than the device deserved, I landed perfectly in the seat. The fit was sublime. My paws rested neatly inside the perimeter, my tail draped elegantly over the back. I was no longer merely a cat in a toy; I was a monarch upon his mobile throne, surveying his domain. When my human found me, she let out a soft laugh. Instead of shooing me off, she gently took hold of the tall push-handle. With a smooth, silent glide, I began to move across the hardwood floor. The world drifted past from my elevated perch. No effort, no undignified running. Just a silent, stately procession. This was not a toy for a toddler. This was my personal chariot. The verdict was in: this contraption was entirely worthy of my magnificence, on the strict condition that its intended user is never, ever allowed to touch it again.
