Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human seems to be regressing to their kittenhood with this… kit. It's a box of those tiny, noisy plastic bricks the brand LEGO is famous for, designed to build imitation houseplants. They’re meant to be assembled into a “dracaena” and a “pilea,” then placed in offensively cheerful little pots with cartoon smiles. While the thought of my human being occupied for hours clicking plastic together is appealing, the end result seems… static. It’s a “display piece.” However, its advertised small size and placement on a desk or shelf suggests it’s not truly meant for display, but for a higher purpose: a test of gravity, a challenge to be swatted, a monument to be toppled. This isn't a toy; it's a future physics experiment.
Key Features
- DELIGHT YOUNG GARDENERS – Help little ones get growing with the LEGO Botanicals Happy Plants building set for kids ages 9+
- A FUN AND COLORFUL BUILD – Green thumbs will love constructing the baby dracaena plant and baby pilea plants, and deciding which to plant in two adorable smiling pots
- HELP CREATIVITY GROW – Kids can build the plants independently or share the fun by building them with a friend or family member
- BUILD, PLAY, AND DISPLAY – Brighten up any play space, shelf, or desk with LEGO plants that double as whimsical, kid-friendly decor
- GIFT IDEA FOR KIDS – The building kit makes a great birthday or anytime treat for girls and boys, or a fun gift for adults who love plants, crafting, or nature
- BUILD MORE LEGO BLOOMS – These brick-built plants can be combined with other sets (sold separately) in the LEGO Botanicals collection, which includes other trees and LEGO flowers
- DIMENSIONS – The dracaena plant in this 217-piece set measures over 4.5 in. (12 cm) high and 3 in. (8 cm) wide, while the pilea plant measures over 3 in. (7 cm) high and 3.5 in. (9 cm) wide
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The sound had been a quiet, persistent *click-click-snapping* for the better part of an hour, a minor annoyance that disturbed the otherwise perfect acoustics of my afternoon nap. When the noise finally ceased, the human presented their creation with a triumphant, “Ta-da!” I opened one eye. On the coffee table sat two abominations. They were plastic effigies of plant life, one vaguely spiky, the other round-leafed, both rendered in colors far too bright to be natural. They were potted in little ceramic-like containers with faces—grinning, vacuous faces that radiated a kind of simple-minded joy I found personally insulting. I responded with a slow blink, the highest form of feline indifference, and rolled over, presenting my back to the tragedy. Later that evening, the moon cast long shadows across the living room, and the house was still. My human had placed the plastic plants on the edge of the bookshelf, right next to my preferred observation perch. The nerve. I leaped silently onto the shelf, my paws making no sound. I approached the smiling impostors. The air around them was sterile, lacking the rich, earthy scent of a real potted plant I might be tempted to dig in. I lowered my nose to the one they called a dracaena. In its true form, this plant is a forbidden delicacy, a whisper of delightful toxicity. This plastic mockery, however, was an odorless fraud. It was an insult to all the fine, poisonous houseplants of the world. I sat back on my haunches, tail twitching, contemplating the object. It wasn't a toy to be chased. It wasn't prey to be hunted. It was… a statement. A fragile, precariously balanced statement of human hubris. It believed it could just sit there, being cheerfully plastic, in my domain. I extended a single, perfect paw. I did not unsheathe my claws; this was a task for blunt force, not sharp implements. A gentle, calculated nudge was all it took. The dracaena tipped. It fell with a soft, unsatisfying clatter, not a dramatic crash. Several of its "leaves" popped off upon impact, scattering like strange, rectangular seeds. The smiling pot landed on its side, its painted grin now looking manic and absurd against the dark wood of the floor. My human called out from the other room, "Pete, was that you?" I looked down at the disassembled art piece, then back at the remaining plant, its own stupid smile seeming to quiver in the moonlight. I let out a low, rumbling purr. This wasn't a toy for playing with. It was a toy for *deconstructing*. A repeatable puzzle with the most satisfying solution. Yes, I decided. This little brick set is entirely worthy of my attention. The game, it seems, had just begun.
