Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured a glorified piece of printed cardboard, which they have unfurled upon my favorite napping territory—the living room rug. They call it a "game," this "Candy Land Disney Princess Edition." It appears to be a pointless exercise for the smaller, louder humans, involving the movement of minuscule plastic totems along a path of offensively bright colors. From my vantage point, the entire affair seems utterly devoid of skill, strategy, or anything remotely stimulating, like a dangling string or the intoxicating scent of catnip. The only features of interest are the three tiny princess figures, which might possess a satisfying weight for being batted under the furniture, and the box itself, which I have already assessed as a prime, high-walled napping receptacle. The game is a bore; the packaging is the prize.
Key Features
- DISNEY PRINCESS VERSION OF CANDY LAND GAME: Remember playing the Candy Land board game as a kid. Introduce a new generation to this favorite preschool game with the Candy Land Disney Princess game
- RACE TO THE CASTLE: Players encounter beloved Disney characters as they guide their princess mover around the rainbow path in a race to the enchanted castle. Whoever reaches it first wins
- 3 FAVORITE DISNEY PRINCESSES: In this fun kids game, little ones can play as Cinderella, Rapunzel, or Ariel
- DISNEY PRINCESS-THEMED GAMEBOARD: Colorful gameboard features illustrations of Aladdin, Snow White, The Little Mermaid, The Princess and the Frog, and other beloved Disney movies
- NO READING REQUIRED TO PLAY: Candy Land Disney Princess board game doesn't require reading, so it's a great game for children who haven't learned to read yet
- PRESCHOOL BOARD GAMES MAKE GREAT KIDS GIFTS FOR GIRLS AND BOYS: Childrens games make one of the most enjoyable holiday gifts or birthday gifts for kids ages 3 and up
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The invasion began on a Tuesday. Without ceremony or so much as a by-your-leave, my human unfolded a garish map of pastels and cloying illustrations onto the floor. A "rainbow path" snaked its way toward a ludicrously pink castle, an architectural nightmare that offended my minimalist sensibilities. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail twitching in irritation as the small human shrieked with delight, choosing a tiny plastic effigy of a woman in a blue dress. Cinderella, they called her. A fool, clearly, to be racing anywhere without the promise of a fresh tin of tuna. I observed their bizarre ritual. They would draw a colored card, and the small human would then clumsily advance her blue totem to the corresponding color on the path. There was no stalking, no pounce, no elegant chase. It was a mockery of everything I hold dear about "play." The pieces themselves were static and silent, an insult to a predator of my caliber. I had half a mind to reclaim my rug with a dramatic flop, scattering their pathetic pawns and ending this farce. I am, after all, the true monarch of this castle, and this board was an unwelcome fiefdom. My human, ever the diplomat, must have sensed my disdain. "Look, Pete," she cooed, picking up the purple pawn—the one with the absurdly long hair. "It's Rapunzel! Don't you want to play?" She wiggled it before my nose. I leaned in, gave it a perfunctory sniff, and was met with the sterile, soulless scent of mass-produced plastic. I flattened my ears, preparing to deliver a swat that would send the purple princess flying into the dark abyss beneath the television stand. But then, the game ended. The small human cheered, the board was folded, and in the hasty cleanup, the mermaid pawn, Ariel, was knocked from the table. It landed on the hardwood floor with a soft, promising *click*. Silence. The humans were distracted. I slid from my perch, silent as smoke. I approached the fallen totem. It was small, yes, but solid. I extended a single claw, not in aggression, but in scientific inquiry. A gentle tap. It skittered, gliding across the polished floor in a smooth, silent arc, its trajectory far more graceful and engaging than its prescribed path on the board. It came to rest perfectly aligned with the floor vent. A new game. A better game. My game. The board and its rules were a waste of cardboard and breath. But this one, solitary piece? It had proven itself a worthy puck in the grand sport of Floor Hockey. The toy is beneath me, but its components, I have concluded, have their uses.
