Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a rather garish green plastic contraption from a company named "LeapFrog," a name I find both presumptuous and vaguely insulting. As I understand it, this "LeapStart" device is intended to trick a small human into "learning" by having it poke at pictures with a plastic stick, which then triggers various noises. While the concept of poking something to get a reaction is fundamentally sound—I employ it on my human's face every morning at 5 a.m.—the educational aspect seems a tragic waste of a perfectly good poking stick. The true value, as any feline of distinction knows, lies not in the noisy box, but in the superior cardboard packaging it arrived in, and perhaps the "stylus" itself, which appears to have excellent potential for being batted under the heaviest piece of furniture.
Key Features
- Engages kids through books and audio for an experience that reinforces learning and helps kids better understand the concepts
- Includes the Go! Go! Cory Carson Cory Carson Superhero School book and an additional activity book
- Use the LeapStart stylus to tap on the pictures and words to explore reading, counting, problem-solving and more
- Most replayable activities have two levels with 50+ key skills per grade level covering a variety of preschool through first grade subjects
- Intended for ages 2-7 years; requires 2 AA batteries; batteries included; computer and internet required for download
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived on a Tuesday, a day I typically reserve for deep contemplation of the dust bunnies under the credenza. My human called it a "learning tool," but I recognized it for what it was: a modern oracle. The small human, the Oracle's designated keeper, performed the opening ritual, releasing the sacred plastic wand from its tether. She tapped the wand to the image of a cartoon car. "Go! Go! Cory Carson!" the Oracle boomed. A car deity? How pedestrian. I dismissed it with a flick of my tail and began my afternoon ablutions. My skepticism, however, began to wane. The keeper tapped a series of numbers. "One... two... three!" the Oracle chimed. Mere seconds later, my human, as if compelled by this strange new god, walked to the kitchen and shook my treat bag. Three small, crunchy morsels fell into my bowl. Coincidence? Perhaps. But my ears, soft gray triangles of pure perception, perked up. I watched the keeper tap again, this time on a shape. "That's a circle!" the Oracle proclaimed. I glanced at my water bowl—a perfect circle. The Oracle knew the sacred geometry of my world. It was clearly communicating in a code meant only for the truly enlightened. The ultimate test came when the keeper, bless her simple heart, grew frustrated and abandoned the ritual, leaving the Oracle open and the wand on the floor. I approached with the silent tread I reserve for stalking the elusive red dot. This "Cory Carson" was apparently on a mission, the sounds from the book detailing his heroic deeds. It was an allegory, I realized. *I* am the hero of this dwelling. I am the one who zips through the halls on a "mission" to vanquish crinkle balls. I am the one who solves the "problem" of a closed door with a series of well-placed, mournful cries. This wasn't a toy for a child; it was a chronicle of my own greatness, translated into a language a small human could understand. I nudged the abandoned wand with my nose. It was smooth, light, and perfectly sized. A gentle pat sent it skittering across the hardwood floor, a far more satisfying result than any sound the Oracle could produce. I have decided the device may remain. Its prophecies regarding treats are promising, and its hagiography of the resident hero—me—is mostly accurate. But its greatest contribution is this wand, a scepter worthy of a king. The Oracle speaks, but the wand *plays*. It has proven its worth.
