Pete's Expert Summary
My staff has brought a garish plastic bucket into my domain, apparently for the benefit of a smaller, less-coordinated human. It’s a product from Fisher-Price, a brand known for its loud, unsubtle offerings for the drooling masses. The contraption involves cramming brightly colored shapes through specific holes, an activity they claim fosters "problem-solving skills," a concept I mastered shortly after birth. While the bucket itself is too small for a quality nap and the yellow lid has far too many drafty openings, the ten lightweight blocks hold some promise. They seem perfectly sized for batting under the sofa, and the clattering sound they'll make on the hardwood floors could be a delightful way to disrupt a mid-afternoon conference call. A marginal distraction, at best.
Key Features
- Set of 10 colorful blocks for baby to sort, stack and drop through the shape-sorter lid
- All blocks fit inside bucket for storage
- Easy-carry handle for take-along play
- Introduces baby to colors and shapes
- Helps foster fine motor skills and problem-solving for infants and toddlers ages 6 months and older
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived on a Tuesday, a day I typically reserve for intensive sunbeam analysis. It was an assault of primary colors, a red bucket with a disturbingly cheerful yellow lid. I watched from my perch on the velvet armchair as the small, clumsy human—the one they call "the baby"—fumbled with it. The creature repeatedly tried to force a red star into a blue circular hole, its frustration mounting with each failure. I yawned, displaying my full set of perfectly-pointed teeth. Such a lack of fundamental spatial awareness was, frankly, embarrassing to witness. Eventually, the tiny tyrant gave up and crawled away, leaving the bucket and its scattered contents as a monument to its ineptitude. Later that night, long after the house had settled into a slumber I deigned to permit, I descended to the scene of the crime. The moonlight cast long shadows from the abandoned shapes on the floor. A yellow cylinder, a green cross, a purple triangle. Childish trifles. I circled the bucket, my tail twitching with intellectual contempt. The plastic felt cheap under my discerning paw, lacking the satisfying heft of a well-made felt mouse. I nudged the star block. It skittered away with a hollow rattle. Pathetic. But then, a thought took hold. This wasn't a toy. It was a test. And I, a being of superior intellect, could not leave it unanswered. This was my chance to create a silent, unsolvable mystery for my bipedal staff. I would not simply bat the shapes around; that was for common alley cats. I would complete the challenge with the grace and precision befitting my station. I approached the first shape, the maligned star. A quick, calculated tap with my paw sent it spinning perfectly through its designated slot. *Thump*. Next, the triangle. A gentle nudge with my nose, and it slid home. One by one, I dispatched them: the cylinder, the square, the peculiar cross-shape. Each block entered its plastic prison with a quiet finality. Within a minute, all ten blocks were inside. The floor was clear. The bucket was full. The puzzle was solved. I didn’t feel a thrill of play, but rather the quiet, smug satisfaction of a master craftsman admiring his work. I left the bucket sitting in the center of the rug, a pristine and inexplicable accomplishment for the humans to discover at dawn. Let them wonder what genius had visited in the night. The toy itself was an insult, but the opportunity it provided to so elegantly demonstrate my superiority? Priceless. I leaped back onto the armchair, curled up, and began to purr. The work was done.
