Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my Human has procured yet another item from the "Melissa & Doug" institution, a brand I've come to associate with objects for the Small Human that are tragically lacking in feathers, crinkle-sounds, or catnip. This contraption is a board, presumably for organizing the Small Human's bafflingly complex schedule of finger-painting and screaming. It is festooned with an absurd number of small, colorful squares meant to represent days, weather, and even *emotions*, as if such things can be tidily contained in a two-inch magnet. While the overall purpose is a colossal waste of my time, the sheer quantity of small, lightweight, eminently swattable, and likely lose-able magnetic tiles presents a glimmer of potential. The dangling cord is also a feature of some note, though I suspect its true purpose will be lost on my staff.
Key Features
- Daily magnetic calendar to display day of the week, date, weather, and special events
- Includes a pair of fabric-hinged dry-erase boards (one with calendar template, one blank for magnet storage) with a sturdy cord attached for hanging
- 83 magnets including years, months, numerals for dates, days of the week, holidays, special events, emotions, and a sliding temperature indicator
- Encourages communication and a reassuring expectation about the events in a child's life
- Makes a great gift for preschoolers, ages 3 to 6, for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a flat, bright box that promised none of the rustic, corrugated joy of a proper shipping container. My Human presented it to the Small Human with a great deal of ceremony, and I observed from my strategic perch atop the bookcase. They called it a "calendar," a tool for caging the wild, beautiful chaos of time into neat little rows. I flicked an ear in disdain. They began populating the board. "Thursday," one magnet read. Another proclaimed it was "Sunny," a fact I had already ascertained hours ago from the quality of the sunbeam on the rug. The most offensive tile, however, was the one with a cartoonishly beaming face, labeled "Happy." What an absolute lie. Later that evening, long after the lesser beings in the house had fallen into their noisy slumber, I descended for my nightly patrol. There it was, hanging from a hook on the wall, a smug little rectangle of enforced order. I leaped silently onto the credenza beneath it. The air was still. The house was mine. I stretched a paw, extending a single, perfect claw, and delicately hooked the edge of the "Sunny" magnet. With a satisfying *tink*, it detached and slid to the floor. Excellent. The "Happy" magnet was next, followed by "Play Date." I would not have my naptime prospects dictated by some garish piece of plastic. I surveyed my work. The board was now a beautiful canvas of blank spaces. But it needed a master's touch. Using my nose, I nudged the magnet box closer. I selected my preferred tiles with the precision of a jeweler. First, "Snowing." It was June, but a cat can dream. Next, I found a tile with a scowling face. I didn't know what the humans called it, but I recognized it as the face of true enlightenment. I placed it squarely in the middle of the board. Finally, I found the magnet that simply said "CAT." I was unsure of its intended purpose, but its truth was undeniable. I positioned it at the very top, a crown jewel asserting the proper hierarchy of this domain. I hopped down, leaving my revised schedule to be discovered in the morning. The board itself was an instrument of tedious bureaucracy, an insult to the fluid nature of existence. But the magnets... the magnets were a different story. They were a medium. A way to communicate profound truths and create minor, delightful confusion for my staff. The toy is a failure, but its parts have potential. I shall permit it to remain, as a public service.
