A photo of Pete the cat

Pete's Toy Box: LeapFrog

LeapFrog Learning Friends 100 Words Book, Green

By: LeapFrog

Pete's Expert Summary

My Human has presented me with a 'LeapFrog Learning Friends 100 Words Book,' a garish plastic slab apparently designed to teach undersized humans the rudimentary vocabulary I have already mastered. It boasts of introducing words for 'pets' and 'food,' subjects on which I am the household's foremost authority, through the dubious medium of prodding cartoon animals. While the light-up star button might provide a fleeting moment of paw-based amusement, the incessant electronic chatter and simplified imagery are an assault on the senses. Its true purpose, I suspect, is not education, but to serve as a slightly-too-lumpy pillow or a new obstacle to trip The Human on her way to my food bowl.

Key Features

  • Meet learning friends Turtle, Tiger and Monkey who will introduce more than 100 age-appropriate words chosen by learning experts
  • Word categories include: pets, animals, food, mealtime, colors, activities, opposites, outside and more
  • Touching the words on the pages plays the words, sound effects and fun facts; hear the Learning Friends theme song and My Favorite Word by pressing the light-up star button
  • Words, songs and instructions can be heard in both English and Spanish for a full bilingual experience
  • Intended for ages 18+ months; requires 2 AA batteries; batteries included for demo purposes only; new batteries recommended for regular use. Product Dimensions: 9.4" wide x 9.2" height x 1.9" depth

A Tale from Pete the Cat

It arrived in a box of other useless items, an offering The Human called a "baby shower gift" for someone I had no interest in meeting. She unboxed it and, with the misguided enthusiasm only a human can muster, placed the plastic book on my favorite Persian rug. She tapped a picture of a cartoon monkey. A tinny, cheerful voice chirped, "Monkey!" I yawned, displaying the full glory of my fangs to show my utter lack of impressment. She then tapped the glowing star. A dreadful little song erupted, and I immediately fled to the sanctuary of the upstairs landing. This was not a toy. It was an auditory menace, a blight upon the tranquil silence of my domain. Later that evening, under the cloak of darkness, my curiosity got the better of me. I crept downstairs. The house was silent save for the hum of the refrigerator, a sound I find comforting. The book lay open. I approached with the caution of a cat stalking a particularly wily dust bunny. I sniffed its plastic spine. It smelled of nothing, a void. I gave it a tentative pat with one soft, gray paw, accidentally pressing the image of a tiger. "¡Tigre!" a different voice said. I recoiled. Spanish? What sort of intelligence operation was this? A bilingual book of codes? A new theory began to form in my magnificent brain. This wasn't a toy. It was a communication device. The Human was a sleeper agent, and this was her field manual. "Turtle," "Tiger," and "Monkey" were not friends; they were codenames for other operatives. The categories—"food," "animals," "outside"—were mission parameters. I began a systematic investigation, tapping each image to intercept the transmissions. "Apple." "Car." "Moon." I was piecing it together. "Apple" was the target. They would use a "car" to get there, under the light of the "moon." It was all so clear. I sat back on my haunches, a smug sense of satisfaction washing over my pristine tuxedoed chest. The Human thought this was a simple learning tool. She had no idea she had brought a vital piece of international espionage into my house. I would keep watch over this "book." I would listen to its secrets, learn its patterns. I am no longer just Pete, the pampered house cat. I am Pete, the counter-intelligence agent, the silent guardian of the living room. This device is utterly contemptible as a toy, but as a source of critical intelligence? It is indispensable. It shall remain under my close and constant surveillance.
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LeapFrog LeapPad Academy Kids’ Learning Tablet, Green

By: LeapFrog

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has procured a glowing green slab, an object they call a "LeapPad Academy," apparently from a brand of jumpy amphibians. It purports to be an "educational tablet" for the small, loud human, filled with apps and a "kid-friendly" web portal. From my vantage point, its primary function appears to be generating a cacophony of cheerful noises and distracting the household's primary source of attention and sustenance. While the promise of moving images on the screen could offer a fleeting diversion, and the heat from its rechargeable battery might provide a pleasantly warm surface for a nap, I suspect it is ultimately just another clumsy, sticky-fingered contraption designed to occupy a mind far too simple to appreciate the complex art of finding the perfect sunbeam.

Key Features

  • Enjoy a kid-friendly tablet with Android that’s packed with 20 educational apps and creativity tools designed by LeapFrog learning experts
  • Explore LeapSearch, LeapFrog’s kid-friendly web browser and add to the learning with kid-friendly websites and videos
  • Includes a free three-month trial of LeapFrog Academy, an interactive learning program that progressively guides children on learning adventures
  • Parents can download popular Android apps or choose from hundreds of games, apps, videos and music (sold separately) from the LeapFrog App Center
  • Intended for ages 3-8 years; rechargeable lithium ion battery included

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The emerald monolith arrived on a Tuesday. I observed from my post atop the velvet armchair as the small human was presented with the glowing device. For an hour, the room was filled with the tinny sounds of triumphant jingles and endlessly cheerful voices spelling out simple words. It was, to be frank, an assault on the senses. Then, as is their way, the small human was distracted by a piece of string and wandered off, leaving the green tablet abandoned on the rug, its screen dark but its essence still humming with a faint, electronic warmth. Compelled by a duty to inspect any new territory within my domain, I descended. I circled the object, my tail held low in skeptical appraisal. It was encased in a thick, rubbery green shell, clearly designed to withstand the very clumsiness that had led to its current abandonment. A faint, sugary scent of jam clung to its surface. I extended a single, immaculate white paw and tapped the dark glass. It was smooth, cool, and utterly unresponsive. A primitive tool. I tapped again, this time with a hint of claw for emphasis. The screen flared to life, not with the alphabet or singing farm animals, but with a portal. Through the glass, I saw a lush jungle scene. A brilliantly colored poison dart frog blinked its bulbous eyes at me. The sheer audacity. A device from a company named "LeapFrog" presenting me with a digital effigy of its namesake. It was a challenge. I watched, mesmerized for a moment, as it flicked out a long, pixelated tongue to catch a fly. I felt a primal stirring, the ghost of an instinct, but it was hollow. There was no scent, no thrill of the pounce, no satisfying weight of captured prey. I stared into the glowing box and saw it for what it truly was: a prison for pathetic ghosts. It offered simulations—of frogs, of letters, of worlds—but it possessed no substance. It was a lie, beautifully rendered but a lie nonetheless. It promised adventure but delivered only light and noise, a cheap imitation of the vibrant, tactile world I commanded from my armchair. It was a pacifier for the mind, designed to dull the senses rather than sharpen them. With a soft snort of derision, I turned my back on the fraudulent jungle. Let the small human be entertained by these flat, silent phantoms. I have real birds to watch, real shadows to stalk, and the very real warmth of a sunbeam that asks for nothing but my presence. The tablet, I concluded, was a failure. Its only redeeming quality was the gentle heat it offered, making it a marginally acceptable, if garish, floor warmer.
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LeapFrog 2-in-1 LeapTop Touch, Green

By: LeapFrog

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.
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LeapFrog Shapes and Sharing Picnic Basket, Pink

By: LeapFrog

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.
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LeapFrog LeapStart Learning Success Bundle, Green

By: LeapFrog

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.
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LeapFrog Mr Pencil's Scribble, Write and Read, Pink

By: LeapFrog

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.
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LeapFrog Prep for Preschool Activity Book

By: LeapFrog

Pete's Expert Summary

Ah, yes. The staff has brought me another trinket, this time a so-called "book" from a company named LeapFrog—an absurd name, as frogs are for stalking, not for manufacturing. From my initial assessment, this is a flattened, noisy contraption designed to train the hairless kittens they call "preschoolers." It aims to teach them rudimentary concepts like counting and shapes, things I mastered in my first week of life while calculating the exact trajectory needed to intercept a dust bunny. It makes sounds when touched, which might provide a fleeting moment of distraction from an empty food bowl, and it comes with a small, black stick. While the flashing lights and tinny voice are an assault on my refined senses, I must admit the potential of batting that little stick under the heaviest piece of furniture is… intriguing. Ultimately, however, it seems a colossal waste of plastic and my valuable napping time.

Key Features

  • Interactive book helps preschoolers prepare for school and build confidence with replayable learning activities
  • Explore counting, colors, shapes, the alphabet and words with six touch-sensitive pages
  • Practice letter writing, number matching, shape tracing and line drawing with six marker pages and an erasable pen; Dress for the Weather page encourages kids to choose clothes and draw them on the figure
  • Build phonics skills with activities that help children find beginning letters and rhyming words
  • Intended for ages 3+ years; requires 2 AA batteries; batteries included for demo purposes only; new batteries recommended for regular use

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The Curator placed the garish slab on the rug with an air of ceremony I usually reserve for the opening of a fresh can of tuna. "Look, Pete! For the neighbor's kid!" she chirped, tapping its surface. A chipper, electronic voice blared out, "Let's learn the alphabet!" I flattened my ears and narrowed my eyes. An alphabet? I communicate perfectly well with a single, judgmental stare. This was clearly beneath me. I turned my back, presenting her with the elegant gray expanse of my disapproval, and began meticulously grooming a single, already-perfect whisker. Hours later, silence had reclaimed my domain. The Curator was gone, leaving the offensive object behind. My one weakness, a deep-seated need to investigate any new addition to my kingdom, took hold. I padded over, my paws silent on the hardwood. I sniffed its plastic edges. It smelled of nothing, a profound disappointment. With a calculated air of indifference, I extended a single claw and tapped a picture of a dog. "D is for Dog!" it yelped. Obvious. I then pressed my entire paw down on the page, covering multiple sensors at once. The machine sputtered a cacophony of letters and colors, a brief, chaotic symphony that I found unexpectedly amusing. It was like shouting back at the noisy birds outside the window. My exploration led me to a different section, one with a small, black stylus tucked into a holder. A pen. I’ve seen the staff use these to make meaningless scribbles on flat tree pulp. This one, however, was small, light, and perfectly cylindrical. I nudged it with my nose. It rolled with a silent, satisfying grace across the glossy page, stopping perfectly at the edge. This was a discovery of some merit. The page itself showed a drawing of a small, genderless human figure under the words "Dress for the Weather." The machine prompted, "Is it sunny or snowy?" I ignored the babble and nudged the pen again, this time with my paw, dragging it across the figure’s face. A faint black line appeared. I had scarred the tiny human. I had marked my territory on this strange oracle. When the Curator returned, she found me sitting a regal three feet away from the book, feigning sleep. She wouldn't know of my secret experiments, of my brief tenure as a vandal of educational materials. My verdict was clear. The "book" itself is a loud, presumptuous bore. But the pen… ah, the pen. The pen is a marvel of physics, a silent roller, a potential captive to be held hostage under the credenza for weeks. The book is merely its pedestal. For the pen alone, this contraption is deemed… acceptable. For now.
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LeapFrog ABC and 123 Laptop for Preschoolers Ages 3-7 Years, Green

By: LeapFrog

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.
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