Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has presented me with a "Disney Princess Style Collection Laptop." A cursory glance tells me everything I need to know. It is a garish pink plastic shell, a mockery of the warm, humming machine my staffer uses for her "work," which I know is just an elaborate excuse to provide me with a heated napping surface. This thing offers no such comfort. It purports to have "phrases" and "music," which translates to a series of repetitive, high-pitched noises designed to interrupt my deep slumber. The only features of remote interest are the flimsy cardboard "screens," which might have a satisfying chew-feel, and the small "ear bud" case, which looks suitably sized for batting under the antique credenza. Honestly, it seems like an awful lot of noise and plastic for a device that can't even stream a decent video of birds.
Key Features
- 5 ways to play with over 15 phrases, sounds & music!
- 2 double-sided desktop screens for 4 screens correlating with the 5 modes of play
- Customizable with included stickers
- Includes 1 laptop, 2 double-sided desktop screens, 1 pair of play ear buds with case and 1 sticker sheet
- Requires 3 LR44 button cell alkaline batteries (included) - Suggested for girls ages 3 and up
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object arrived in a cacophony of crinkling plastic and the small human's delighted squeals. It was a clamshell of such an offensive shade of pink that it vibrated against my retinas. My human placed it on the floor, a sacrificial offering to her noisy offspring. I observed from the safety of the hallway, my tail a metronome of deep suspicion. This was no proper laptop. It lacked the gentle whir of a fan, the comforting glow of a true screen, and most importantly, the residual warmth that signifies a quality piece of electronics. This was a cold, hollow imposter. The small human began her ritual, poking at the flat, unresponsive buttons. The device shrieked back with tinny music and a voice that declared, "You've got mail!" I have mail every day. It comes through a slot in the door and smells of the outside world and the mail carrier's inferior dog. This was not that. Then, the true absurdity began. She swapped out a piece of cardboard inside the device for another, as if changing the very soul of the machine. One moment it showed cartoon women in gowns; the next, a crude map. It was a charade, a low-budget play put on by an untalented troupe, and I was not amused. My breaking point, however, came with the "ear buds." Two useless plastic nuggets tethered by a string. The small human, in a moment of utter madness, attempted to place them near my own perfectly-tuned, magnificent ears. The sheer audacity. A low growl rumbled in my chest, a clear signal that she was violating several interspecies treaties. She retreated, leaving the ear buds and their little plastic case discarded on the rug. Later that evening, under the cloak of moonlight, I returned to the scene. The pink monolith sat silent, its power exhausted or its spirit broken. But the little case… that was different. I gave it a tentative pat. It skittered beautifully across the hardwood, a whisper of sound against the polished floor. I crouched, wiggled my hindquarters, and pounced. It flew, tumbling through the air before landing with a satisfying clatter. This was a worthy opponent. I spent the next hour hunting the case, batting it into the shadows of the dining room and retrieving it with heroic flair. The pink laptop is a failure, a hollow vessel of noise and disappointment. But its tiny escape pod, the ear bud case, has proven to be an exquisite toy. A flawed masterpiece, you might say, where the packaging is infinitely superior to the product. The main device is an insult to my intelligence, but its tiny companion has earned a temporary stay of execution from being lost under the refrigerator.
