Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought another plastic contraption into my domain, this one from a brand called "LeapFrog," which sounds exhausting. It's a crude imitation of the warm, silver rectangle the human taps on all day, only this one is a garish green and clearly made of inferior, non-nappable material. It has buttons that make noise—letters, numbers, undoubtedly some grating music—and a screen that clumsily flips over, as if it can't decide what it wants to be. Its alleged purpose is to "teach" a smaller, more chaotic human the alphabet and how to spell its own name. Frankly, its only potential value is as a decoy, drawing the tiny human's attention away from my tail. Otherwise, it's a cold, hollow waste of space.
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 case landed on my desk—or rather, the living room rug—on a Tuesday. It was garish green, plastic, a real cheap piece of work. The big one, my human, was cooing over it, tapping its keys with a strange reverence. A tinny, synthesized voice kept blurting out letters, followed by a triumphant little jingle. The human seemed to think this was the height of technological achievement, which says more about her than the device. She called it a "LeapTop," a name that was, in itself, an affront to good taste. I approached with caution, my tuxedo immaculate, my senses on high alert. What was its angle? What was its game? I extended a single, perfect paw and gave the screen a tentative pat. It didn’t yield like the human’s warm silver slab; it was cold, hard, and uninviting. In response to my touch, it let out a chipper bark-like sound and a voice chirped, "Let's play a game!" I do not play games with inanimate objects that cannot be satisfyingly shredded. The human, mistaking my professional assessment for curiosity, flipped the screen back with a loud *clack*, transforming the thing from a failed tablet into a failed laptop. The final insult, the detail that closed the case file for good, was the message function. The human pressed a button, and the soulless voice announced, "You have an email from Scout!" Scout. A dog's name. The sheer, unmitigated audacity. This wasn't just a toy; it was an insult. A monument to bad taste populated by digital canines. I narrowed my eyes, gave it one last, disdainful sniff—the plastic smelled of a factory, not of a worthy adversary or a comfortable bed—and turned my back on it. I had a sunbeam in the study that required my immediate and undivided attention. Case closed.
