Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired a box of colorful dust and strange vessels. The alleged purpose is to "grow" shiny rocks using hot water and patience, a task that seems needlessly complicated when there are perfectly good, pre-made shiny things on the human's jewelry stand. The prospect of new, multifaceted objects to gaze upon has some merit, and the little plastic domes they end up in might be suitable for batting across the floor. However, the lengthy process, involving much human fussing and "not for cats" liquids, suggests this is more of a spectator sport and a potential interruption of my afternoon slumber than a truly engaging plaything. It all seems like a tremendous amount of effort for what will likely become a series of new, un-pounceable paperweights.
Key Features
- This science kit contains all the materials needed to perform seven different crystal growth experiments; Use hot water (distilled recommended)
- A special display case is included to admire the crystals once they are fully grown
- Perfect for young science enthusiasts; especially those with an interest in geology
- Complete instructions for each experiment are included with the kit
- Recommended for ages 10 years and up; Challenge your child's imagination with 4M toys and kits
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The dame—my human—brought it in on a Tuesday. A cardboard box, gaudy and loud, promising "science" and "crystals." I’ve been on this beat long enough to know that when a human promises science, it usually means a mess and a collection of objects I’m not allowed to touch. I watched from my post on the armchair as she laid out the evidence: strange powders in little bags, beakers that looked suspiciously like my water dish but were clearly off-limits, and a set of instructions she mumbled over like a secret code. She was planning a caper, and I, Detective Pete, was on the case. The first phase involved hot water. A dangerous element, used only by the desperate or the foolish. She mixed the powders, creating colored liquids that smelled of nothing—the most suspicious scent of all. I tailed her every move, a silent gray shadow against the floorboards. She poured the concoctions into special containers and then did the unthinkable: she just left them there. On the counter. Exposed. This was the work of an amateur. Any self-respecting jewel thief would have a better security system. The stakeout was long. Days passed. I watched the containers, feigning sleep but with one ear twitching at the slightest change. Slowly, miraculously, the jewels began to form. Jagged, colorful structures emerged from the depths of the liquid like a city rising from the sea. They were beautiful, I’ll give her that. Sharp, glittering, and utterly captivating. When they were finally "grown," the dame carefully extracted them and sealed each one in a small, clear plastic dome. The vault. My chance to inspect the loot up close was foiled by a cheap, transparent prison. I could bat the dome, and I did, sending one skittering across the kitchen floor with a satisfying clatter. The sound was good, but the prize remained untouchable. The case was closed. The dame had successfully executed her heist, producing seven impressive, but ultimately useless, gems. They now sit on a shelf, catching the light in a way that is briefly interesting but offers no tactile reward. It was a classic human job: all flash, no substance. The real crime was the time I'd wasted on it—time that could have been spent interrogating the sunbeam creeping across the living room rug. Some mysteries, it seems, are more rewarding than others.
