Pete's Expert Summary
My Human seems to believe this colossal plastic structure, ostensibly for the tiny, shrieking humans, is something that might concern me. They call it a "Woodland Climber." I call it an unsubtle, multi-level monument to questionable taste that now dominates my backyard kingdom. It boasts a climbing wall, which is a laughable imitation of a real tree, and a slide for undignified, gravity-assisted exits. The "steering wheels" are an insult to my intelligence. However, I will concede that the elevated platform offers a superior vantage point for monitoring the pathetic antics of the local bird population, and the "lower level for hiding" has potential as a tactical command center for my afternoon naps, sheltered from the oppressive sun. It is a garish intrusion, but one with strategic possibilities.
Key Features
- FUN PLAYTIME: Bring excitement of the park playground to the backyard, climbing wall, play area, two steering wheels, slide, ladder, a lower level for hiding or storage, kids can have unlimited fun
- INTERACTIVE PLAY: Climber play strengthens the muscles, improves fine motor abilities, increases physical and mental strength, encourages imaginative play, discovery, and problem-solving
- NATURAL DESIGN: Earthy colors, realistic textures that reflect nature, blend with the backyard, safe play environment for your baby and kids
- EXTRA STORAGE: Storage underneath for outside toys or hide-and-seek, make into a hideaway to inspire creativity, enough space to add a sandbox, maximum weight: 240 lbs., assembled dimensions: 75” x 47” x 53.75”
- DURABLE: Built to last, easy to clean, durable double-walled plastic construction, years of use with colors that won't chip, fade, crack, or peel, low maintenance, easy to clean
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The case landed on my desk—or rather, on the lawn just past the patio door—on a Tuesday. The Dame, my human, pointed a finger at it. "What do you think, Pete?" she asked, her voice full of that naive optimism I've learned to tolerate. It was a big one. A "Step2 Woodland Climber," according to the whispers on the wind. Looked like it was assembled by gorillas. The earthy colors were a poor attempt at camouflage; it stood out against the dignified green of my lawn like a clown at a funeral. My jurisdiction. My case. I had to investigate. I started my initial sweep with a slow, deliberate perimeter check, tail held low and professionally. The plastic smelled of the factory, a sterile scent that promised no authentic woodland experience. I bypassed the so-called "ladder"—an apparatus for the clumsy and unimaginative—and flowed up the climbing wall. The molded grips were adequate, if artless. From the top platform, I could see everything: Mrs. Higgins's poodle digging in her petunias, the mail carrier's approach, a particularly fat robin taunting me from the fence. The sightlines were good. I gave one of the steering wheels a perfunctory bat. It spun uselessly. A dead end. This wasn't about driving; it was about surveillance. The slide was my next stop. I peered down the slick, green slope. A quick getaway route, perhaps, but messy. Noisy. Lacking in subtlety. It was a rookie's move. I dismissed it and descended the way I came, with the grace of a shadow. The real lead, the detail that cracked the whole case open, was underneath. The Dame called it "storage." I called it The Hideout. It was a cavern of cool, gray plastic, a pocket of darkness shielded from the sky. The perfect place for a long, uninterrupted stakeout. Or a nap. In my line of work, they're often the same thing. I settled into the dusty darkness of my new office, the sounds of the neighborhood muffled. The Dame thought she'd bought a toy for the small humans. She was wrong. She'd bought me a private detective agency. The structure itself was a garish front, a cover operation for the real prize. The tiny humans could have their slide and their pointless wheels. I was keeping the speakeasy downstairs. Case closed.