Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a baffling display of misunderstanding my core needs, has procured a "Little Tikes Fish 'n Splash Water Table." It is, by all appearances, a large, garishly colored plastic basin intended for small, shrieking humans to engage in a mockery of one of nature's most noble pursuits: fishing. The "critters" are buoyant, smiling mockeries of aquatic life, and the primary activity seems to involve water—my mortal enemy—being sloshed about with reckless abandon. While the concept of a "launcher" designed to fling these unfortunate creatures has a glimmer of potential for a skilled paw, the overwhelming risk of a dampening of my magnificent tuxedo coat suggests this is an apparatus best observed from a very, very dry distance.
Key Features
- Fun, durable water table with fishing game and counting play
- Catch, collect and count your fish before releasing them with a splash
- Fill the fishbowl until it tips over and splashes down in a wave
- Use the launcher to fling the critters onto the spinning lily pad in the center of the table
- Includes fishing pole, 5 floating critters, water cup and fishing net
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The monstrosity arrived on a Tuesday, a day usually reserved for extended naps in the western sunbeam. My human, whom I shall call The Stagehand for the purposes of this narrative, assembled it on the patio with much grunting and the rustling of plastic. It was a garish diorama of blue and green, a crude stage for some sort of aquatic play. I watched from my throne—a wicker chair just beyond the splash zone—as The Stagehand filled it with the hose, my ears twitching with distaste at the sound. The production was clearly for a less discerning audience. The play began. The Stagehand introduced the cast: five brightly colored "critters," crass caricatures of a frog, a crab, and their ilk. With a clumsy plastic rod, The Stagehand performed a pathetic pantomime of fishing. This was followed by an amateurish splash effect as a tipping fishbowl—the show's one-note villain—dumped its contents with a predictable roar. I was about to doze off, utterly unimpressed by the pedestrian dramatics, when The Stagehand revealed the show's single interesting device: the launcher. With a flick, a small plastic frog was sent soaring through the air, landing with a satisfying *plop* near a spinning lily pad. My eyes, previously slits of boredom, widened. Now *that* was a bit of unexpected choreography. When The Stagehand inevitably grew bored and retreated indoors for sustenance, I, the esteemed critic, descended from my perch to inspect the stage. The water held a distorted reflection of my own superior form, but I had no intention of making contact. The so-called fishing net was useless, the rod an insult. I padded around the perimeter, my gaze fixed on the launcher. It was a simple catapult, a marvel of minimalist design hidden within this otherwise chaotic set piece. With a cautious paw, I nudged the little orange crab onto the launching pad. It took a moment of careful prodding and applied pressure, but I managed to depress the trigger myself. The crab flew. It soared in a perfect, silent arc before splashing down on the far side of the basin. A thrill, pure and predatory, shot through me. The rest of the production was a disaster, a true waste of plastic. But this one, singular feature? A bravura moment of mechanical genius. The play itself is a flop, but I shall be returning for private, unsupervised rehearsals with the catapult. It has earned, against all odds, a hesitant paw of approval.
