Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have mistaken our household for a preschool. This object, a garish green plastic clamshell from a brand called "LeapFrog"—a name that frankly offends my graceful, non-leaping sensibilities—is apparently a "laptop." It’s designed to teach rudimentary symbols to tiny, clumsy bipeds. It features a creature named Pixel, a digital face trapped behind a screen, whose primary function is to flash and make noises. While the promise of moving parts and a glowing antenna offers a sliver of potential for batting practice, the overall concept of "learning" letters and numbers seems like a profound waste of energy that could be better spent staring at a wall until dinner materializes.
Key Features
- Learn and laugh while exploring letters, counting and basic computer skills across 11 activities with your new pal, Pixel
- Press the letter and number keys to hear their names and see silly animations
- Pixel’s digital face animates, his hands move and his antenna lights up while he talks, tells jokes, sings and dances to encourage learning
- Create simple code programs to clean or cuddle Pixel, then text back and forth with Pixel’s best friend Chip
- Intended for ages 3+ years; requires 4 AA batteries; batteries included for demo purposes only. New batteries recommended for regular use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived with the usual fanfare of a cardboard box, which I inspected and approved of, but the true insult lay within. My human placed the glowing green contraption on my favorite rug, its plastic shell gleaming with condescension. She called it a "laptop," as if I, a connoisseur of the warm and humming surfaces of *actual* laptops, could be fooled. I gave it the obligatory sniff of disdain and turned my back, commencing a vigorous cleaning of my shoulder to demonstrate my complete and utter disinterest. The silence that followed was, I admit, unnerving. Hours later, long after the human had abandoned her foolish endeavor, I approached the thing. It sat there, inert and smug. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave one of the square buttons a tentative *tap*. The device shrieked to life. A disembodied face named Pixel appeared, its antenna pulsing with a sickly green light. It babbled something about the letter "P." I flattened my ears. Was this a challenge? A mockery of my own name? I tapped another button. "J is for Joke!" it chirped, and Pixel wiggled his digital hands. An electronic joke-teller. How pathetically desperate for attention. I decided to treat it not as a toy, but as a prisoner to be interrogated. I began a systematic assault, pressing keys in rapid succession. "T-U-N-A," I spelled out, a simple, clear demand. The machine responded with a nonsensical song about triangles. Useless. Then, I discovered the "coding" function. The instructions suggested programming a "cuddle." I, of course, programmed a "pounce." I instructed Pixel to wiggle, then flash his lights, then go silent. It obeyed. A flicker of satisfaction ran through me. This wasn't a teacher; it was a programmable minion, a digital mouse whose movements I could orchestrate. The human found me hours later, crouched before the device, my tail twitching in concentration as I made Pixel dance to my silent, imperious commands. She seemed pleased, believing I was "playing." She has no idea. This isn't play. This is strategic command and control. The device is still an affront to my intelligence, but its obedience has earned it a temporary stay of execution. For now, it may remain on my rug as a monument to my ability to dominate lesser electronic lifeforms. It is a worthy, if simplistic, subject.
