Pete's Expert Summary
My human has, with a great deal of grunting and puzzling over paper instructions, erected this wooden behemoth in what was formerly a perfectly good patch of sunning-grass. They call it a "swing set," a crude name for what is essentially a multi-level observation post and tactical assault structure. It's ostensibly for the small, shrieking humans, but I see potential. The elevated fort with its canopy offers a commanding view of my territory, far superior to the windowsill. The "rock climber" wall looks like a vertically-oriented scratching post of the highest order, and the sandbox is, frankly, an offering of a grandness I have long deserved. While the swinging and sliding elements seem a pointless expenditure of energy, the structure's potential as a private lounge, strategic lookout, and, most importantly, a gloriously oversized lavatory, makes it worthy of my cautious consideration.
Key Features
- OUTDOOR FUN: Sportspower Augusta Wooden Swing Set is feature packed with a 6ft blow molded slide, 2 height adjustable swings, rock climber, sandbox and a playfort with canopy. Up to 5 kids can play at once, (500 lbs maximum weight)
- BONUS: 4 piece anchor kit secures swing set to the ground for extra safety and stability
- HEAVY DUTY: Sportspower Augusta Wooden Swing Set is crafted with Northern Europe Scandinavian fir that is denser than other brands in the market. The double A-frame beams provide added stability
- EXTRA COMFORT: Sportspower Augusta Wooden Swing Set swing chains are UV resistant ropes and are height adjustable to grow with your kids
- SAFE DESIGN: Sportspower Augusta Wooden Swing Set meets or exceeds all ASTM safety standards. Age range: 3 to 8 years old
- LIFETIME WARRANTY: 6 ft double walled blow-molded slide comes with lifetime warranty (competition uses multi piece, plastic sheet as slide)
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a thousand pieces, a dismembered wooden skeleton that smelled faintly of a distant, cold forest. My human spent two days assembling it, his triumphant grunts echoing through the house as the structure took shape. I watched from the safety of the patio door, my tail twitching in annoyance. This was a clear violation of our unspoken agreement: he provides the food and warm laps, and I allow him to live here. This… this was an architectural eyesore, a monument to the noisy, sticky, small humans who sometimes visit. When it was finished, he gestured to it with a proud sweep of his arm. I yawned. My disdain held for a full day, until the incident with Bartholomew. Bartholomew is a crow of unusual size and insufferable arrogance who has made it his life’s work to mock me from the safety of the roof. He’d land, caw a few insults about my pampered lifestyle, and fly off before I could formulate a proper response. But that afternoon, he made a mistake. He landed on the very peak of the new wooden fort, the highest point of this new monstrosity, and paraded back and forth as if he had conquered it himself. This could not stand. This was my yard. That was my fort. With the cold fury of a predator denied his nap, I moved. I ignored the garish yellow slide and the dangling swings, heading straight for the "rock climber" wall. The plastic holds were useless, but the Scandinavian fir itself offered superb purchase for my claws. I scaled the wall with a grim efficiency that would have impressed a mountain leopard. Reaching the platform of the playfort, I crouched low beneath the green canopy, a silent, gray-tuxedoed shadow. Bartholomew, lost in his own self-importance, was still cawing, completely oblivious. He was a mere foot away, separated by the thin fabric of the canopy. I did not pounce. That would be messy and predictable. Instead, I gathered myself and, with a powerful thrust of my hind legs, rammed my head directly into the underside of the fabric roof, precisely where Bartholomew was standing. The resulting *THWUMP* and the crow’s squawk of pure, undiluted terror were immensely satisfying. He was launched a good two feet into the air, flapping in a panic-stricken, undignified frenzy before retreating to the furthest, thinnest branch of the neighbor’s tree. I watched him go, then calmly proceeded down the 6-foot slide—a surprisingly efficient method of descent, I’ll admit—and sauntered over to the sandbox. It was clean, deep, and perfectly raked. A worthy spoil of war. The structure, I decided, could stay. It has its uses.
