Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured what appears to be a torture device for a giant. It is a grotesque, oversized set of plastic teeth accompanied by an arsenal of tiny, pokey instruments. The stated purpose, I believe, is to teach the smaller, louder human not to fear the mouth-scrapers they are occasionally subjected to. For me, the appeal is limited but specific. The giant teeth are an eyesore, frankly. However, the kit is overflowing with a delightful number of small, lightweight plastic bits and intriguing doodads like gauze pads and a lanyard. These are prime candidates for being batted into the mysterious dimension beneath the credenza, a far more noble purpose than whatever my human has in mind. The "vibrating tool" is a wild card; it could be either an insult to my senses or a marvel of modern chin-scratching technology.
Key Features
- 25-piece dentist play set with realistic pretend play dental care essentials to give cleanings, treat cavities, and fit retainers and braces on an over-sized set of pretend teeth
- Includes set of pretend teeth, dry-erase marker, examination tools, toothbrush, toothpaste tube, dental rinse bottle and cup, 2 gauze pads, 3 tooth polish cups, top and bottom retainers and braces, mask, reusable ID tag on a lanyard, double-sided reusable activity card
- Use dry-erase marker to mark “decay” then clean with vibrating tool with interchangeable polishing and drill heads or toothbrush; back 4 teeth wiggle and lift to practice pretend extractions
- A fun and engaging way to teach good dental health practices, and to ease kids’ fears or feelings of stress associated with a visit to the dentist
- 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 already fraught with the peril of the vacuum cleaner's scheduled rampage. My human, the tall one, presented the box to the small one with the kind of reverence usually reserved for a particularly succulent piece of tuna. From it, she extracted an anatomical horror: a set of gums and teeth so large they could have belonged to a shark with a distressing need for orthodontia. I watched from the safety of my favorite armchair, tail twitching in silent, contemptuous judgment. This was, without a doubt, the most aesthetically offensive object to ever grace my living room. The small human began to play, poking at the plastic maw with various implements. I was about to dismiss the entire affair and commence a nap when a new sound cut through the air. It was a low, steady hum, a thrumming vibration that resonated in the floorboards and, more importantly, in my whiskers. My ears swiveled, pinpointing the source: a small, white wand in the human's hand. It was the "vibrating tool." They were using it to "polish" the giant plastic teeth, a fool's errand if ever there was one. But the sound… the frequency was almost perfect, a mechanical imitation of a deep, contented purr. My curiosity, a force more powerful than my cynicism, compelled me to descend from my perch. I slunk across the rug, a gray shadow on a mission of acoustic investigation. The small human, distracted by a shiny retainer, set the humming wand down. This was my chance. I approached it with the caution of a cat sniffing a questionable piece of fish. I nudged it with my nose. The vibration was a strange, ticklish sensation. Emboldened, I rubbed my cheek against the handle. Oh. Oh, my. The resonant hum traveled through my jaw, up into my skull, and seemed to vibrate the very core of my being. It was sublime. It was a targeted, high-frequency massage device. The rest of the kit was forgotten, rendered obsolete by this singular marvel. The grotesque teeth, the silly mask, the pokey tools—all of it was meaningless junk. This wand, this beautiful, humming, vibrating wand, was the pinnacle of human engineering. When the small human reached for it, I let out a low growl, placing a firm paw on my new prize. They could have their ridiculous dental theater. I had discovered the true purpose of this "toy." It was not a dentist kit. It was a personal face-massaging servitor, and it was mine.
