Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a display of what I can only assume is a catastrophic misunderstanding of species, has presented me with a plastic slab clearly intended for a clumsy, drooling human kitten. It is called the "100 Animals Book," a garish green contraption that purports to "teach" through a series of flashing lights and offensive electronic squawks. It has pages, but they are thick and unforgiving, not the satisfyingly shreddable paper I prefer. While the promise of animal sounds could, in theory, pique my predatory instincts, the high-pitched, tinny quality I’ve overheard suggests it will be more of an insult to my finely tuned ears than a stimulating call to the hunt. Frankly, it looks like a tremendous waste of energy that could be better spent supervising the sunbeam's slow journey across the living room rug.
Key Features
- Six double-sided, interactive pages feature animals from 12 categories such as the forest, the ocean and the shore
- Explore three play modes that teach about animal names, animal sounds and fun facts
- This fully bilingual book lets kids learn about animals and sing songs in English and Spanish
- Fun facts about animals provide an early introduction to science concepts
- Intended for ages 18+ months; requires 2 AA batteries; batteries included for demo purposes only; new batteries recommended for regular use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object was placed on the floor with a gentle thud and a hideously cheerful, "Look what I got for you, Pete!" I observed it from my throne atop the sofa's armrest, tail giving a single, dismissive flick. It was an affront of primary colors. The Staff—my primary human—poked it, and the thing erupted in a synthesized jingle that was a crime against music. I closed my eyes, feigning a deep slumber, hoping the monstrosity would be forgotten. But then, a new sound pierced my feigned peace. A robotic voice chirped, "Duck!" followed by a "Quack! Quack!" so profoundly artificial it sounded like a dying modem. My ear twitched. This was not the sound of prey. This was a mockery of prey. An insult to the entire anatidae family, whom I enjoy watching from the window with great murderous intent. What kind of creature made such a noise? My scientific curiosity, a faculty I rarely employ for anything less than locating the weak point in a bag of treats, was piqued. I descended from the sofa with the deliberate grace of a predator investigating a strange new phenomenon. I circled the plastic book, sniffing its sterile edges. It smelled of nothing, a void where the rich scent of fur, feather, or fear should be. The Staff, mistaking my intellectual inquiry for interest, tapped a picture of a striped animal. "¡Tigre!" the box declared, followed by a roar that sounded less like a distant cousin and more like a vacuum cleaner choking on a dust bunny. The sheer audacity of it. The gall. I lifted a paw, claws carefully sheathed, and pressed down on a picture of a pig. "Oink! Oink!" it squealed. I was not playing. I was conducting a systematic interrogation. I poked the frog. I prodded the sheep. Each sound was a new, fascinating level of auditory failure. My final verdict came as I sat, staring at the book, my tail now twitching with amusement, not annoyance. As a toy, it is a pathetic failure. It will never replace a crumpled ball of paper or the frantic dance of a laser dot. But as an artifact of human strangeness? As a bizarre, interactive sculpture that produces an endless symphony of terrible noises? It is a masterpiece of absurdity. I will not hunt it, but I will, from time to time, demand The Staff activate it. It is important to be reminded of how very odd the world outside my perfect, sunbeam-filled life can be.
