Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented what appears to be a loud, plastic vessel of indoctrination from the LeapFrog corporation, an entity I understand specializes in shaping the minds of pliable, small humans. This "Shapes and Sharing Picnic Basket" is a garish pink container that, when prodded, emits gratingly cheerful sounds and blinking lights, ostensibly to teach a toddler about colors and shapes—concepts I, of course, find laughably rudimentary. The small, loose plastic food items have a certain appeal, as they are lightweight and perfectly sized for batting under the heaviest pieces of furniture. However, the accompanying electronic chorus of polite requests and tinny music is an affront to any creature of refined sensibilities, making the entire contraption a potential waste of my very valuable silence.
Key Features
- Features 15 brightly colored play pieces including plates, forks, cups, food and a tablecloth, perfect for a pretend picnic for two
- Match the shape of the food pieces with the interactive shape sorter to hear the basket recognize the food and say the shape and color of each one
- Press the butterfly button to hear music or polite snack requests from the picnic basket. Feed the basket The correct food for rewarding responses
- Choose from three play modes including music, shapes & colors and picnic Time modes for a wide range of exciting and interactive activities
- Picnic basket lights up and all the play pieces fit inside for easy storage. Picnic basket requires 3 AA batteries (batteries included for demo purposes only, new batteries recommended for regular use); intended for ages 6 months to 4 years
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived on a Tuesday, a day typically reserved for extended sunbeam meditation. The human called it a "picnic basket," a laughable misnomer for the pink plastic monstrosity with a face frozen in a state of unsettling glee. She pressed the purple butterfly on its head, and the thing erupted in a symphony of synthesized idiocy, demanding a triangular cracker. The small human shrieked with a delight I found deeply suspect. I watched from my perch atop the velvet armchair, tail twitching in silent judgment. This was not a toy; it was an auditory assault weapon. Later, under the cloak of night, I conducted a more thorough investigation. The basket sat dormant on the rug, its cheerful face somehow more sinister in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. I circled it, my soft paws making no sound. The plastic food pieces were the real prize, I had deduced. During the day's chaos, I'd seen the orange wedge skitter across the floor with a most satisfying velocity. But they were all now contained within the beast's belly. I nudged the basket's lid with my nose. It was latched. A fortress. The butterfly button was its guard, a sentinel I could not operate. My opportunity came not through force, but through cunning observation. The small human, in its infinite clumsiness, failed to secure the latch after a particularly vigorous session of "feeding" the basket. A minuscule gap remained. That evening, I returned. I ignored the accursed butterfly and focused on this structural flaw. I hooked a single, sharp claw into the sliver of an opening, applying steady, patient pressure. There was a faint *click* as the lock surrendered. The lid swung open, revealing the brightly colored plunder within. I did not gloat. I am above such petty displays. One by one, I carefully extracted the circle, the square, and the triangle. I left the forks and plates—useless implements. I took my liberated shapes and, with a series of expert paw-swipes, sent them careening into the darkness beneath the credenza, a far more fitting home for such excellent, silent projectiles. The basket could keep its songs and its insipid smile. I had stripped it of its only valuable assets. It was, in the end, a poorly designed vault for perfectly good floor hockey pucks. A mild success, but the success was mine alone.
