Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe the small, loud one requires its own undersized furniture. This "Melissa & Doug" brand, known for its rather earnest and clunky wooden objects, has delivered a set: a table and two chairs. From my perspective, this is not a play space for a clumsy child, but a perfectly-scaled observation deck and a pair of thrones. The sturdy wood construction is promising—I despise a wobble when I land—and the 11-inch seat height is an insultingly easy leap, but grants a superior vantage point over the floor-level peasant creatures, such as dust bunnies and the dog's chew toys. While the miniature human's inevitable application of sticky substances is a significant drawback, the potential for a new, dedicated napping throne located in a prime sunbeam patch makes it an item of considerable interest.
Key Features
- 3-piece set (table and 2 chairs) gives children a kid-sized space for creativity
- Chair seat height: 11"
- Sturdy wooden construction
- Easy assembly
- Additional set of 2 chairs sold separately to accommodate four kids at the table
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The assembly process was, as usual, a tedious affair involving my human, an L-shaped silver tormentor, and a series of quiet grunts. I observed from the safety of the sofa arm, feigning sleep but with one eye cracked open. A new structure was rising in the living room. It was squat. It was pale wood. It was clearly an offering, but for whom? When the large, clumsy hands placed it in the center of the rug, my suspicions were confirmed: it was for the small-fry. I gave a dismissive flick of my tail. Another piece of territory to be inevitably smeared with yogurt. Hours later, the house fell silent. The sun, a loyal servant, had shifted to cast a perfect, warm rectangle upon the new construction. Curiosity, that most undignified of instincts, got the better of me. I slunk from my perch and approached the set with the cautious, silent tread of a hunter. The scent was clean, just wood and a hint of the factory it came from. I circled the table, my whiskers twitching, gathering data. Then I turned my attention to one of the chairs. A throne. My throne. It looked solid, at least. No cheap particle board here; I could feel the integrity through the floorboards. With a leap that was pure liquid grace, I landed squarely on the seat. There was no shudder, no creak, no undignified wobble. It was firm. Solid. A worthy pedestal. From this new height of eleven inches, the world took on a new dimension. I could see the tantalizing cord of the window blinds, previously just out of casual batting range. The top of the dog's head was now a convenient platform for a future surprise attack. I hopped onto the table itself—my grand dais—and surveyed my kingdom. I stretched out on the smooth, light-finished wood, letting the sun bake into my soft gray fur. This was not a child's art station. This was my personal command center. I could nap here, I could judge the lesser beings of the household from here, I could conduct important grooming rituals in full view of any visitor. Let the small-fry have the other chair; a king can be magnanimous. This Melissa & Doug contraption, despite its humble origins, had passed my rigorous inspection. It was not merely furniture; it was an elevation of my status. It would do.
