Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a garish pink learning tablet, a device clearly designed for a small, uncoordinated human, not a sophisticated feline like myself. It's from LeapFrog, a purveyor of noisy plastic contraptions that seem to delight in disrupting the household peace. This particular slab promises to teach rudimentary scribbling with a so-called "Mr. Pencil," which then transforms the glowing scrawls into crude animal figures on its screen. Frankly, the cacophony of letter sounds and counting is an auditory assault. The only part that piques my interest is the stylus itself, this "Mr. Pencil," attached by a tantalizingly chewable cord. The main tablet seems to be a waste of plastic, but its tethered appendage holds a sliver of potential for a good bout of 'capture and destroy.'
Key Features
- Your new pal, Mr. Pencil shows kids how to write uppercase and lowercase letters step-by-step, then transforms the letters into animated animals and more
- Trace numbers by following the dotted lines, then watch them transform into objects you can count
- Customize by entering a child’s first, middle and last name so they can practice writing it
- Sound out new words by sliding Mr. Pencil across the screen and the sound-it-out bar lights up to follow along
- Intended for ages 3+ years; requires 3 AA batteries; batteries included for demo purposes only; new batteries recommended for regular use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human called it a gift, placing the pink monstrosity on the rug with a coo. I watched from my throne atop the scratching post, tail twitching in silent judgment. They poked at it with the little gray implement, and the device shrieked with the sound of the letter 'C'. Then, a series of glowing dots coalesced into a crude, blinking caricature of one of my kind. An insult. This "Mr. Pencil" and his glowing box were not a toy; they were a portal, a summoning circle for lesser, digital beasts. I would not stand for it. This house has one feline overlord, and I am not made of pixels. My opportunity came that evening. The human, distracted by a moving picture box in the other room, had left the portal active. It lay dormant, a silent pink rectangle. I descended from my perch, paws silent on the wood floor. My target was not the box itself, but its wand, the stylus they called Mr. Pencil. This was the source of its power, the conduit through which it channeled its obnoxious magic. To neutralize the threat, I had to sever the connection. I approached cautiously, sniffing the plastic. It had the faint, sterile scent of a factory, devoid of life or interest. With a low growl rumbling in my chest, I set to my task. I hooked a claw under the gray cord that bound Mr. Pencil to his prison and pulled. The tension was satisfying. I batted the stylus, sending it skittering across the smooth surface of the tablet, which awoke with a startled chime. I ignored it. This was about the hunt. I pinned the wand with one paw and began gnawing at its tether. The cord was resilient, a worthy adversary. It had a pleasing give, a subtle resistance that spoke to a well-made, if misguided, product. For a few glorious moments, it was a battle of wills: Pete versus Plastic. Finally, with a decisive crunch, the cord gave way. Mr. Pencil was free. I batted him once, twice, sending him spinning under the armchair. Victory. The pink portal remained, but it was inert, its master vanquished. I groomed a stray piece of my tuxedo fur, feeling accomplished. The toy itself is a bore, an electronic nuisance designed for beings of inferior intellect. But I will concede this: for a brief, shining moment, the challenge of liberating its little gray prisoner was a worthy diversion. The cord has excellent chew-resistance, a solid 8 out of 10. The rest is just noise.
