Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to think this garish green contraption is a suitable companion for the Small Human. It's a plastic beast from the VTech assembly line, designed to make an infernal racket whenever the Small One shoves colored tokens into its gaping mouth. It purports to teach things like "counting" and "shapes," concepts far beneath a creature of my refined intellect. While the educational value is utterly lost on me, the dangling pull-string presents a fleeting possibility for a well-aimed swat. The little plastic food pieces might also be suitable for batting into an inaccessible abyss, but the incessant electronic chatter will surely disrupt the precise 18-hour nap cycle required to maintain my magnificent tuxedo coat.
Key Features
- Dinosaur toy recognizes the eight brightly colored food pieces as you feed him; provides fun responses as he eats each piece
- Baby learning toy dinosaur introduces colors, food, shapes and counting; play in either counting or meal mode
- Early learning center with 130+ songs, melodies, sounds and phrases; kids can answer Dino's questions with the correct food pieces
- 5 shape buttons teach shapes and numbers or rotate the spinning disc to play sing-along songs; pull toy interacts as it is pulled or pushed along
- Baby toy comes with volume control and auto shut-off and is for toddlers 1 to 3 years old; 2 AA batteries are included for demo, use new batteries for regular use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived in a box of thunderous cardboard, a creature of unsettlingly vibrant green plastic. The Small Human, my primary source of dropped food and unintentional petting, shrieked with a glee I reserve only for the sound of a freshly opened can of tuna. They called it a "Dino." I called it an affront. It sat there, glassy-eyed and smiling a vacant, painted smile, until the Small Human tugged its leash—a simple string—and it rolled forward, emitting a cheerful, electronic melody that grated on my very soul. This was not a predator. This was noise pollution on wheels. Then, the ritual began. The Small Human picked up a small, red plastic disc. The Dino, in a digitized voice that oozed false enthusiasm, bellowed, "I'm hungry! Feed me!" The Small Human obliged, and upon the token passing its plastic gullet, the Dino sang a song about the color red. I watched from my perch on the armchair, my tail twitching in profound irritation. A creature that announced its hunger and then sang a jingle upon being fed was no creature at all; it was a pathetic performer, a jester in the court of this tiny, tyrannical human. My contempt, however, was soon complicated by curiosity. The Dino then asked, "Can you find the yellow star?" The Small Human fumbled, trying to cram a blue square into its mouth. The Dino made a polite "bloop" sound of rejection. This continued until the correct yellow star was inserted. A thought, cold and sharp as a winter morning, pierced my consciousness. This wasn't a game. This was an interrogation. The Dino was an inquisitor, testing the loyalty and intelligence of its subjects. It knew things. What was the significance of the yellow star? Was it a warning about the sunbeam it knew I coveted? Was the blue square a reference to the water dish I'd fastidiously avoided all day? I spent the rest of the afternoon in silent observation. This wasn't a toy. It was a gatekeeper, a bizarre warden of shapes and colors. The pull-string was no leash; it was a chain binding this oracle to our mortal realm. Its songs were not jingles; they were coded messages, prophecies utterly wasted on the giggling simpleton it served. I would not deign to touch it. Such a being was not to be trifled with. I would simply watch, and wait for it to reveal a secret truly worth knowing, like the hidden location of the emergency kibble. Only then would I acknowledge its power.
