Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired a gaudy green and white plastic clamshell, a crude imitation of the warm, humming rectangle upon which I take my most important naps. They call it a "LeapTop," and apparently, it's for the small, noisy human who is still mastering the art of walking without toppling over. It purports to be an educational device, filled with buttons that squawk out letters and numbers, which is frankly insulting to my own well-established literacy. It has various "modes," including one for sending "emails" to a creature named Scout—who I can only assume is a rival of inferior intellect. While the real laptop offers the sublime pleasure of a heated bed, this thing offers only cold plastic and a cacophony of tinny sounds. It is, in short, a complete waste of space unless its sole purpose is to be dramatically pushed off a high surface.
Key Features
- 2-in-1 laptop features a screen that flips to convert from keyboard to tablet mode.Ideal for ages:2 years and up
- Laptop features a keyboard with letters A-Z and numbers 1-10, or swivel and transform it into a touch tablet
- Kids can pretend to be like mom and dad with role-play activities like emailing Scout
- Features five learning modes - ABCs, numbers, games, music and messages
- Parents can customize the laptop to help their child spell their name
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object was an affront to good taste. It sat on the rug, a garish splash of green plastic in my otherwise tastefully decorated domain. The small human was jabbing at it, producing a series of discordant beeps and a cheerful, disembodied voice that grated on my nerves. I observed from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching in irritation. This was not a proper "laptop." It lacked the gentle whir of a fan and the pleasant warmth that signals a premium napping location. This was an imposter, a charlatan in a cheap plastic shell. My opportunity came when the small human was whisked away for a "diaper change," a chaotic ritual I never stick around to witness. I descended silently, my paws making no sound on the hardwood floor. I circled the device, sniffing. It smelled of plastic and faintly of dried applesauce. The screen glowed with a primitive illustration of some grinning cartoon animal. The human had mentioned a feature where it could be customized to spell a name. My name. P-E-T-E. A tantalizing thought. Perhaps this device could be taught to worship me. With a deliberate press of my paw, I began my work. The machine blurted out "Q!" then "W!" This was more difficult than I anticipated. My paws, designed for silent stalking and gentle kneading, were ill-suited for this clumsy interface. I tried swiping at the screen, which had been flipped into its "tablet mode." It responded with a burst of irritatingly cheerful music. I was about to give up, to dismiss it as a hopeless piece of junk, when my paw accidentally slid across a row of buttons at the bottom. The device suddenly declared, "You've got a message!" A pre-recorded voice, full of false sincerity, asked if I wanted to play a game. A game? This was a challenge. I listened as it asked me to find the letter "P." My ears perked up. This was it. My chance to assert my intellectual superiority. I located the "P" and gave it a firm tap with my claw. "That's right!" the voice cheered. Then it asked for "E." Then "T." Then "E" again. I spelled my name. A triumphant, if tinny, fanfare erupted from the speakers. I had conquered the machine. I had bent it to my will and forced it to acknowledge my greatness. I sat back on my haunches, purring. The toy was still loud, plastic, and utterly useless as a bed, but as a monument to my own brilliance? It would suffice. For now.
