Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a moment of questionable judgment, has acquired what appears to be a torture rack for liquids. This 'Ooze Labs Chemistry Station' from a brand called Thames & Kosmos—a name that reeks of dull textbooks and not enough crinkle sounds—is clearly intended for the smaller, clumsier human in the household. It boasts a dizzying array of tiny, plastic vessels perfect for batting under the sofa, but its primary function seems to be mixing various unappetizing potions. While the promise of 'glowing slime' and 'fizzing reactions' holds a certain chaotic appeal, I suspect the true entertainment will be watching the staff clean up the inevitable disaster. It might be worth a brief, supervisory stroll-by, but it’s unlikely to usurp the prime sunbeam spot as my main source of afternoon engagement.
Key Features
- Play the role of chemist with this huge, colorful, functional lab station!
- Create glowing slime, fizzing reactions, Oozing Bubbles, colorful chromatography, and more!
- With 57 pieces, This kit has everything you need to conduct experiments like a real scientist, including beakers, test tubes, flasks, pipettes, and more.
- Printed experiment cards clip onto the lab station for easy reference and additional experiments and scientific explanations are included in a separate 16-page, full-color manual.
- Includes non-hazardous chemicals; does not contain borax.
- A parents' Choice silver honor award winner
- Skill level: Intermediate
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The cacophony began as a low fizzing, an insult to the sacred silence of my afternoon nap. I opened one green eye to see the small human hunched over a new plastic shrine, a garish altar of orange and blue. Beakers and flasks, like miniature offerings, were scattered before it. The small human, playing the part of a particularly inept high priest, consulted a laminated card before pouring a white powder into a tube of clear liquid. The resulting hiss was underwhelming. I’ve produced more impressive sounds of discontent after being served the salmon pâté when I was clearly in the mood for tuna. For the next hour, I observed this clumsy ceremony from my perch on the armchair. There was a glowing slime, a grotesque, viscous puddle that jiggled pathetically and smelled faintly of nothing interesting. There were oozing bubbles, which popped with a sad wetness long before they could become airborne for a proper pouncing. It was a parade of failed potential, a series of cheap tricks designed to impress a simple mind. I was about to close my eyes and return to my scheduled dream about chasing a sunbeam with<seg_64>butter on its wings when the ritual took a strange, quiet turn. The small human placed a round, white piece of paper over a beaker. Using a pipette—a device I noted for its potential as a water-flicking annoyance tool—it placed a single, dark purple drop in the center of the paper. Then, drop by drop, it added clear water. I watched, my cynicism momentarily suspended. It was not a fizz or a pop, but a silent, deliberate unfurling. The purple began to bleed outwards, separating as it went. A ring of vibrant pink emerged, followed by a soft, spreading halo of blue. It was a ghostly flower blooming on the flimsy paper, a secret language of color revealing itself without a sound. The small human soon grew bored and abandoned the station, leaving the colorful mess for the taller staff to handle later. I hopped down, my paws silent on the hardwood floor. I ignored the sticky slime and the sad, empty beakers. My attention was fixed on the paper disc, now a delicate tie-dye masterpiece of pinks and blues. The rest of the laboratory was a disaster zone—utterly beneath me. But this single artifact, this paper blossom of separated pigments, was different. I nudged it gently with my nose. It was elegant. It was silent. It was art. The kit, I concluded, was mostly noisy nonsense, but this one, quiet miracle was an acceptable offering. I would allow it.
