Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a tub of colorful plastic bits, ostensibly for the smaller, louder human to learn about "levers" and "pulleys." As if I, a master of applied physics who expertly uses my own body as a lever to launch myself onto the highest bookshelf, need a lesson. The entire enterprise seems dreadfully educational and therefore boring. While the final contraptions—a balance, a wheelbarrow, a sailboat—appear flimsy and beneath my notice, the sheer quantity of over 130 small, lightweight, eminently battable plastic rods and connectors holds a certain chaotic promise. It's likely a waste of my supervisory energy, but might provide a few good pieces to lose under the refrigerator.
Key Features
- The set includes 130+ parts for a single child or team of 2 children to build 3 unique lever or pulley models: a balance, a wheelbarrow and a Sailboat.
- Students will learn about lever classes, pulley systems, resistance, effort, mechanical advantage and more!
- The experiment guide is aligned to National STEM standards and is appropriate for Grade levels 3-5.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The sound was the first offense: a cheap, plastic clatter as my human upended the tub onto the living room rug. It was the sound of a thousand tiny failures, a cascade of garish blue, yellow, and red pieces that screamed of intellectual insecurity. From my post on the arm of the sofa, I watched with profound disdain as the human fumbled with the rods and connectors, consulting a sacred papyrus of instructions with a furrowed brow. The goal, it seemed, was to construct a rudimentary balance scale, a pathetic imitation of the delicate equilibrium I maintain daily between napping and demanding sustenance. The final product was as wobbly and unimpressive as I'd anticipated. The human, beaming with unearned pride, placed it on the floor. Then came the ultimate insult. They took a few pieces of *my* kibble and placed them on one side of the scale, then a small plastic counterweight on the other. A demonstration. As if I were a simpleton who didn't understand the concept of 'more' and 'less.' I narrowed my eyes. This was not a toy. This was a challenge to my very dignity. I descended from my perch with the gravity of a king inspecting a peasant's tribute. I ignored the human's cooing and instead circled the plastic monstrosity. It was a stage, I realized, and a performance was required. I approached, not with the frantic energy of a common kitten, but with the deliberate grace of a seasoned artist. I extended a single, perfect white paw and gently, so gently, rested it on the empty side of the scale. It dipped slowly, elegantly, under the weight of my magnificence. With the human watching, rapt, I applied the slightest pressure with a single, extended claw. The other side of the scale, bearing my precious kibble, shot upwards, flinging the dry morsels across the hardwood floor. They skittered into the shadows, a delightful percussive finale to my impromptu performance piece, which I titled, "The Inadequacy of Human Measurement." The human sighed, but I had made my point. The toy itself is crude, a child's bauble. But as a prop for demonstrating profound existential truths? For that, and that alone, it has earned a temporary stay of execution.
