Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my human has procured a "Human Offspring Training Module" from the Melissa & Doug company, a brand I understand specializes in distracting tiny, loud humans. This kit is a tote bag filled with various plastic implements designed to simulate a visit to the Vet—an establishment I hold in the lowest possible regard. The primary purpose seems to be teaching the small ones how to poke and prod creatures under the guise of "care," using two sad-looking plush animals as practice dummies before they inevitably turn their attention to a superior being, such as myself. While the hands-on, screen-free aspect might build a better class of servant in the long run, the whole affair seems like a prelude to unauthorized belly rubs and ear examinations. The only redeeming feature might be the tote bag itself, should it ever be emptied of its noisy contents.
Key Features
- 24-piece pretend play pet vet set with plush dog and cat and fun veterinarian role playing accessories
- Includes stethoscope, thermometer, syringe, ear scope, tweezers, clamp, cast, bandages, “treatments,” “ointments,” and reusable double-sided checklist for office visits
- Recognized by toy experts at the Good Housekeeping Institute for how it helps kids develop empathy while playing
- Make house calls -- everything stores in handy tote bag
- 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 on a Tuesday, a day usually reserved for sunbeams and uninterrupted contemplation of the dust bunnies under the sofa. My human, with an offensively cheerful tone, unzipped a canvas tote bag, unleashing a plastic clatter that grated on my finely-tuned ears. From within this cacophony, she produced a plush effigy of a cat—a creature so poorly rendered, with vacant button eyes and yarn whiskers, that it was an insult to my entire species. My human’s small, loud offspring immediately seized it, along with a plastic stethoscope, and began a "checkup" that seemed to consist mostly of chewing on the earpieces. I watched from the safety of the mantelpiece, my tail a metronome of pure disdain. My mistake was a moment of weakness. A flicker of a moth outside the window caused me to leap from my perch, and in that instant, I was spotted. The small human, now emboldened and brandishing a red plastic syringe with a spring-loaded plunger, cornered me by the ficus tree. I flattened my ears, not in fear, but in profound irritation. This was it. The simulation was over; the live trials were about to begin. The toddler lunged, not with the syringe, but with a small clipboard and a crayon. It scribbled furiously on a laminated sheet, then held it up for me to see. It was a crude drawing of a cat (me, I presumed) with an arrow pointing to my stomach, next to which was a checkmark beside the word "Hungry." The small human then dropped the clipboard, toddled to the kitchen, and began pointing insistently at my treat cupboard. My primary human, observing this, chuckled and retrieved a single, glorious piece of freeze-dried salmon. The small one presented it to me on the floor as a "prescription." I sniffed the offering. It was, indeed, my preferred brand. I dispatched it with a single crunch and looked at the small human, who was now attempting to put a bandage on the leg of the coffee table. I reassessed. The plastic tools were still junk, an offense to good taste and manufacturing. The concept of "play" was still a baffling, chaotic human ritual. But this specific application of the ritual… this one resulted in salmon. The verdict is therefore complicated. While I cannot endorse this "Vet Set" as a toy, I must acknowledge its surprising effectiveness as a treat-delivery system. The small human may be trained yet.
