Pete's Expert Summary
My Human has, it seems, procured a kit for a smaller, louder human to impersonate one of those white-coated prodders from the V-E-T. It's from Melissa & Doug, a brand one must begrudgingly admit makes items of a certain durable quality, far superior to the flimsy plastic nonsense that usually clutters my domain. The ensemble includes a jacket, which might serve as an adequate emergency napping mat, and an array of plastic tools. Most of these implements are beneath my notice, destined to be lost under the couch. However, the stethoscope piques my interest; the promise of electronic sound effects could provide a brief, stimulating disruption to an otherwise tedious afternoon, though I suspect the novelty will fade faster than my patience during a belly rub.
Key Features
- Dress-up-and-play set with everything a child needs to look the part, plus exciting accessories to spur imaginative play
- Includes jacket, mask, thermometer, stethoscope, reflex hammer, ear scope, syringe, and reusable name tag (mask does not provide protection)
- Stethoscope makes sound effects; 2 AAA batteries required, not included
- High-quality materials ensure durability and safety; this product ships in its own special e-commerce packaging intended to be easier to open and reduce waste (curbside recyclable)
- Sized to fit kids 3 to 6; great gift for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The intrusion began, as most do, by disrupting a perfectly calibrated sunbeam nap. My Human entered the living room carrying a large, flat rectangle of cardboard, a vessel of unknown and therefore highly suspect cargo. After a brief struggle with tape, the contents were unceremoniously dumped onto the rug: a sterile white jacket, a mask, and a jumble of pale blue instruments. The Human then departed, leaving the curious artifacts unguarded. I observed from the safety of the armchair, my tail giving a slow, metronomic twitch of skepticism. The jacket lay there, a flattened, empty husk. It looked like the ghost of a very small scientist. I descended with the fluid grace befitting my station and began my inspection. A soft-footed circle, a deep sniff. The scent was of sterile factory plastic and the faint, chaotic energy of a small human. The tools were disappointingly inert. A "reflex hammer" that was clearly too light to elicit any respectable reflex, an "ear scope" for peering into canals that held no secrets for me, and a syringe that was, on principle, an unacceptable object to have in my house. I was about to dismiss the entire lot as unworthy when I saw it: the stethoscope. Its dual earpieces and dangling chest-piece suggested a purpose, a function beyond mere clutter. This required a closer look. Just as my nose touched the cool plastic diaphragm, the small human—the one they call "Leo"—toddled into the room. A grim understanding dawned on me. This was not for my entertainment; I was to be the patient. Leo was soon wrangled into the white coat, becoming a miniature, unsteady agent of medical tyranny. He approached me, the stethoscope swinging like a pendulum of doom. I braced myself for the indignity, flattening my ears slightly. He clumsily pressed the cold disk against my luxurious gray fur, right over my heart. I prepared to tolerate the intrusion, but then a button on the device clicked. From the plastic chest-piece came a tinny, rhythmic *ka-thump, ka-thump*. It was an insult. A cheap, electronic mockery of the powerful, life-sustaining rhythm within my own chest. This was not a tool of diagnosis; it was a purveyor of fake news. I stared at the small human, my eyes narrowing into slits of pure, unadulterated judgment. This sound was an affront to authenticity, an amateurish facsimile of the real thing. Without a sound, I rose, gave my tail a single, definitive flick of dismissal, and strode away to find a more respectable, and silent, patch of sun. The stethoscope may have failed to impress, but I made a mental note to reassess the jacket later. It did look rather soft.
