Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has procured another artifact, this one a garish plastic bucket clearly intended for a creature of inferior intellect and motor skills. It's from Fisher-Price, a brand synonymous with loud noises and the sort of unbreakable, drool-proof plastic that offends my refined sensibilities. The premise is primitive: take shaped objects and push them through matching holes. A tedious exercise, to be sure. However, the true value, as is so often the case, lies not in the intended purpose but in the components. Ten small, lightweight, multi-colored blocks. These "shapes" are, in essence, ten perfect projectiles for batting under the sofa, skittering across the hardwood floor, or depositing into a shoe. The bucket is merely a temporary prison for these potential amusements, and the lid a minor inconvenience to be overcome.
Key Features
- Set of 10 colorful blocks for baby to sort, stack and drop through the shape-sorter lid
- All blocks fit inside bucket for storage
- Easy-carry handle for take-along play
- Introduces baby to colors and shapes
- Helps foster fine motor skills and problem-solving for infants and toddlers ages 6 months and older
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a cacophony of crinkling plastic and triumphant human cooing. It was placed not before me, but before the Small Human, the one who shrieks and flails. I observed from my post atop the armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation. The bucket, a vessel of offensive primary colors, held its contents captive beneath a lid perforated with crude geometric wounds. The Small Human, with its typical lack of finesse, managed only to gum a corner of the yellow star before losing interest. My moment had come. A casual saunter, a feigned stretch, and a "fortuitous" swipe of my paw sent the entire contraption clattering onto the rug. The prisoners were free. A red circle, a blue cross, a green triangle... a constellation of plastic lay scattered on the plush sea of the carpet. I ignored the bucket, a useless husk. My attention was drawn to the pattern of the spill. The orange square had landed pointing directly at the kitchen door, where my food bowl resides. The yellow star lay in the single patch of sunlight warming the floor. The purple cylinder had rolled to a stop just shy of the dreaded vacuum cleaner, lurking silent in the corner. It wasn't random. It couldn't be. This was not a toy. It was a system of divination. A set of runestones for interpreting the chaotic whims of the giants who rule this house. The Small Human had unwittingly performed the sacred "Casting of the Prisms," and I was the only one intelligent enough to read the signs. The square was a prophecy of imminent dinner. The star, an omen of a quality nap. The cylinder, a warning of the Roaring Beast's eventual awakening. I no longer saw a baby's plaything. I saw an oracle. My task was now clear. I would permit the Small Human to conduct its clumsy rituals, to spill the blocks upon the floor. Then, I, Pete, the Seer of the Sitting Room, would descend from my throne to interpret the Fates. The toy itself is an insult, but its components, when properly scattered by an agent of chaos, are tools of profound power. It is, against all odds, worthy of my attention, not as a plaything, but as my sacred almanac.
