Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a large, complicated box full of glass and powders, which they refer to as a "chemistry set." Apparently, this collection of beakers, burners, and an offensively long 80-page manual is meant to be educational entertainment. While the promise of experimenting with household items like eggs and fats is mildly intriguing—as these are subjects in which I consider myself an expert—the entire endeavor seems designed for clumsy, opposable-thumbed hands. The small, fragile-looking test tubes hold some promise for batting under the furniture, but overall, this appears to be a monumental distraction from my primary responsibilities of sleeping, demanding food, and shedding on dark clothing. It is, in essence, a kit for the human to make a mess that I am not permitted to investigate with my tongue.
Key Features
- Set up your lab space and learn how to safely handle the lab equipment and chemicals.
- Professional quality equipment helps you make the most of your chemistry experiments.
- Investigate chemistry in the kitchen by experimenting with sugar, honey, starch, eggs and proteins, fatty acids, and calcium.
- 125 diverse experiments make up this beginner chemistry set.
- 80-Page, full-color manual includes detailed instructions for the experiments as well as an overview of the field of chemistry and famous chemists.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
Log Entry: Day 734 of my observation of the bipedal staff. A new apparatus has arrived, bearing the grandiose title "Thames & Kosmos." My assistant, the one who pays the mortgage, unboxed it with the sort of giddy excitement usually reserved for when I deign to use a new scratching post. Glassware gleamed under the kitchen lights—beakers, flasks, and tubes of various sizes. A small armory of potential gravity-testing projectiles. The assistant babbled about "safety" and "procedure," thumbing through a colorful manual that I, of course, had already skimmed. The fools. They think this is their laboratory. They are mistaken. I decided to begin my research with a simple translocation experiment. While the assistant was distracted by a chapter on acids and bases, I selected a single, clean test tube with a flick of my paw. It rolled beautifully, a silent, glassy cylinder gliding across the hardwood. I tracked its path, my haunches tensed, my tuxedo-furred chest low to the ground. It was a test of acoustics, trajectory, and the assistant's reaction time. The tube disappeared under the immense bulk of the refrigerator, a location from which nothing has ever returned. The resulting sigh from the assistant confirmed my hypothesis: the apparatus was indeed fragile, and its loss caused a predictable emotional response. Phase one was a success. Later, the assistant attempted an experiment of their own, something involving heating a blue liquid. I observed from my perch on the counter, a position of scientific oversight. They were clumsy, measuring powders with a distinct lack of grace, but the alcohol burner's flame was a thing of hypnotic beauty. It danced with a soft whoosh, a tiny, captive sun. The liquid bubbled, releasing a faint, uninteresting odor. I yawned, stretching luxuriously to show my utter lack of concern, my white paws extending elegantly. This was merely the control group; my own, more ambitious experiments would come later. My final verdict came the next morning. The assistant had attempted to grow sugar crystals, leaving a beaker on the windowsill. The rising sun struck the jagged, glassy growths within, scattering a thousand tiny, skittering rainbows across the walls and floor. They danced and dodged as I pounced, my cynical heart giving a rare flutter of genuine delight. The beaker's contents were inedible, a catastrophic failure in alchemy. But as a light-refraction device for my morning hunt? A resounding success. The "Chem C1000" set is, therefore, deemed a worthy, if roundabout, addition to my collection of amusement-generating artifacts. The assistant may continue to serve as my technician.
