Little Tikes Easy Store Picnic Table with Umbrella, Multi Color, 42.00''L x 38.00''W x 19.75''H

From: Little Tikes

Pete's Expert Summary

My Human has acquired a brightly colored plastic monolith, apparently for the smaller, less coordinated humans to smear their food upon. It is a "Little Tikes" creation, a brand I associate with a certain garish, indestructible quality suitable for beings who have yet to master basic motor skills. It boasts seating for a small hoard, indentations for their cups and crayons, and a frankly enormous umbrella. While its primary function as a tiny-human feeding trough is an affront to my refined sensibilities, its potential as an elevated, shaded, and surprisingly sturdy napping platform cannot be entirely dismissed. It may be a monument to bad taste, but a well-shaded throne is a throne nonetheless.

Key Features

  • Seats up to six kids
  • Two cup holders in center of the table, Multi-purpose condiment/crayon tray
  • Center hole holds a Little Tikes Umbrella (included), No tools required to set up or take down
  • Maximum weight limit 200lbs. per bench
  • Assembly Required, Product Size: 42.00L x 38.00W x 19.75H-Inch
  • Indoor/Outdoor table “unlocks” and folds for portability or storage
  • Includes two cup holders and a multi-purpose condiment/crayon tray
  • Center hole holds the Little Tikes market umbrella (included)
  • No tools are required to set it up or take it down
  • Seats up to 6 children

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The thing arrived in pieces, a puzzle of offensively bright plastic that my Human assembled with a series of sickening clicks. It sat on the patio like a fallen chunk of a clown's spaceship, an absolute violation of the yard's carefully curated aesthetic. I observed its first use from the safety of the sliding glass door. The Small Human, a known purveyor of chaos and sticky fingers, was plopped onto one of the benches. He proceeded to bang a spoon in the condiment tray, smear yogurt on the tabletop, and generally treat the entire apparatus with the respect one might afford a public toilet. I was, to put it mildly, disgusted. This was not a piece of furniture; it was a containment zone for juvenile entropy. Days passed. The sun beat down. I found my usual napping spot on the warm flagstones had become intolerably hot by midday. My gaze drifted, reluctantly, to the plastic monstrosity. The large, striped umbrella cast a perfect, deep circle of shade upon one of the blue benches. It was an oasis of cool in a desert of solar radiation. The Small Human was, thankfully, indoors for his mandated slumber. The opportunity was there, a silent invitation. My dignity warred with my desire for comfort. Comfort, as it usually does, won the battle. With the stealth of a shadow hunting a ghost, I padded across the hot patio. I leaped, expecting a cheap, wobbly landing. Instead, my paws met a surface of surprising solidity. The 200lb weight limit, a fact I'd overheard my Human mention, was no idle boast. This thing was built like a bunker. The plastic was smooth and pleasantly cool against my luxurious gray fur. I circled once, twice, and then settled into a loaf, tucking my paws neatly beneath my white chest. The world, from this new vantage point, was excellent. I could survey my entire domain—the bird bath, the rose bushes, the fence line—all from the comfort of my shaded perch. When the Small Human eventually returned, he found me occupying his seat. He pointed a chubby, yogurt-crusted finger and made a sound of protest. I simply narrowed my eyes and gave a slow, deliberate blink. The message was clear: this throne was now under new management. He could have it when I was finished. The Little Tikes picnic table wasn't a toy, I had decided. It was a conquest. And its spoils—cool, elevated, shaded, and surprisingly comfortable—were entirely worth the initial assault on my eyes.