Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to be under the impression that I, a cat of refined indoor sensibilities, have any interest in "outdoor play." This "Sunny Patch" set from Melissa & Doug, a brand I associate with the tiny human's noisy wooden blocks, is a collection of plastic tools for making... sand cookies. Let me be clear: sand is for my private business, not for baking. The entire concept is frankly disgusting. While the notion of "Frustration-Free Packaging" is a minor blessing, as it reduces the human's agitated fumbling, the contents are questionable. The sea-creature shapes—a turtle, a starfish—are vaguely prey-like, and the spatula might offer a moment's amusement if batted under the refrigerator. However, the primary function involves grit, the outdoors, and a complete lack of edibility, making it a spectacular waste of my valuable energy.
Key Features
- Sea-creature inspired "baking" set of sand toys
- Includes 3 cookie cutters, rolling pin, crab-topped sprinkles shaker, cookie sheet, spatula and two shell-shaped dishes.
- Cookie-baking theme presents an exciting twist on sand toys! Comes in "Frustration-Free Packaging, " intended to be easier to open and reduce waste.
- Part of Melissa & Doug's Sunny Patch, a line of products that encourages exploration and outdoor play.
- Set stores in rinse-through mesh bag.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
My afternoon slumber in a particularly brilliant sunbeam was shattered by the crinkle of a mesh bag. My human, beaming with an undeserved sense of accomplishment, emptied its contents onto my rug. A cacophony of garish plastic clattered onto the floor: a rolling pin, some vaguely animal-shaped molds, and other useless implements. They smelled of the warehouse and lost potential. I issued a sigh of profound disappointment and turned my back on the whole affair. Another collection of trinkets meant for the small, loud human and its baffling fascination with dirt. Hours later, long after the humans had retired for the night, the silence of the house was broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. My curiosity, a treacherous beast, got the better of me. I padded silently into the living room, my white paws making no sound on the hardwood. There, gleaming in the moonlight, was the collection of plastic. My eyes, however, were drawn to one item in particular: a small, red crab perched atop a clear shaker. Its black, painted-on eyes stared blankly, its plastic claws raised in a pathetic attempt at defiance. A pretender. A mockery of a true crustacean. A low growl rumbled in my chest. This slight would not stand. I crept forward, belly low to the ground, my gray fur a shadow in the dim light. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave the crab a sharp tap. It skittered away with a delightful, rattling sound, like a captured cicada. Ah, so it was a fighter! The chase was on. I pursued it under the coffee table, batted it into the hallway, and stalked its rattling retreat behind a curtain. This was no mere piece of plastic; this was a worthy adversary, a nemesis for the modern age. It moved unpredictably, its sound a siren call to my deepest predatory instincts. By dawn, the rest of the sand-baking nonsense lay forgotten. The crab shaker, however, was now my prized possession, my sworn enemy, my raison d'être. I had cornered it beneath the entryway console table, where it remained, silently rattling whenever the floorboards vibrated. The human might think they bought a set for the beach, a tool for their bizarre sand-based culinary arts. They are mistaken. They bought me a singular, perfect object of the hunt. The rest can be taken to the beach and lost, for all I care. The crab stays. It has proven its worth.