Pete's Expert Summary
The Human, in a staggering lapse of judgment, has presented me with a "VTech Musical Rhymes Book." It is, in essence, a garish plastic slab designed to entertain undeveloped human infants with a cacophony of nursery rhymes and flashing lights. The pages are thick and unwieldy, a crude imitation of a proper literary volume. While the notion of "learning" from this device is laughable, I will concede a certain primitive allure to the five colorful piano buttons. They offer a simple, transactional relationship: I press, it squawks. It might serve as a momentary distraction between naps, but it is hardly a toy befitting an intellect of my caliber.
Key Features
- Easy-to-turn pages feature engaging nursery rhymes and cheerful pictures
- Twist and slide fun play pieces on colorful pages
- Learning and music modes introduce age-appropriate vocabulary, music and instrument sounds
- 5 colorful piano buttons play music and introduce instruments and colors
- Baby book is intended for kids 6 months to 3 years of age; 2 AAA batteries included for demo, use new batteries for regular use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived not with a bang, but with a silent, plastic thud upon my favorite sunning rug. The Human called it a "book," a profound insult to the noble paper-and-ink volumes I occasionally deign to nap upon. This was a crimson impostor, a hollow vessel of cheap cheer. For a full hour, I regarded it from across the room, my tail executing a slow, metronomic twitch of disdain. It was an idol to some forgotten, tasteless god, and my Human was its witless acolyte, placing it in my sacred space as an offering. My curiosity, that most troublesome of my virtues, eventually won out. I approached with the fluid grace of a stalking predator, circling the object. Its surface was unnervingly smooth. I extended a single, perfect claw and tapped one of the colorful rectangles near the bottom. The book screamed. A series of piercing electronic notes, accompanied by a flash of green light, assaulted the quiet dignity of the room. I recoiled, fur on end. It was a defense mechanism. The thing was hostile. But then, a thought bloomed in my magnificent mind. This was not a toy. This was a puzzle box, a coded communique from some lesser intelligence. The flashing lights, the repetitive, maddening tunes—they were a language. The twistable ladybug was not a plaything, but a dial for tuning frequencies. The sliding caterpillar changed the very syntax of the message. The nursery rhymes were not rhymes at all, but strategic ciphers. "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" was clearly a warning about the bath, while "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" was an obvious forecast of when the evening treats would appear. I have since taken it upon myself to decipher this device. The Human thinks it's "adorable" when I sit intently before it, methodically pressing the piano keys. They believe I am entertained. They are fools. I am not playing. I am engaged in a battle of wits with an alien intelligence, slowly but surely cracking its code. The VTech monolith will yield its secrets to me, Pete, the cryptographer of the living room. It has proven a worthy, if noisy, intellectual challenge.
