Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought a noisy, plastic arena into my living room, a miniature battlefield from a brand that typically caters to clumsy human kittens. It appears to be a "Shoot Out Hockey" game. The premise is simple, even for a human: they flail at a lever to shoot a small ball towards a goal, which is defended by a motorized goalie twitching back and forth like a cornered shrew. The most intriguing aspect is not the game itself, which seems a tremendous waste of energy, but the promise of *twenty* small, plastic balls. While the whirring motor and the incessant *thwack* of the lever threaten to disrupt a perfectly good nap, the sheer quantity of potential new floor-skittering treasures might just make the ordeal worthwhile.
Key Features
- Flip lever to shoot the ball while motorized goalies try to block
- Automatic ball return retrieves your blocked shots
- Requires 4 AA batteries (not included)
- Includes Arena, 2 players, 2 motorized goalies with nets, backdrop, 3 dividers, 20 balls and instructions
- Recommended for children 5 years of age and older
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived on a Tuesday, an affront of primary colors and rattling plastic that my human assembled with the focus of a brain surgeon and the grace of a falling bookshelf. The air soon filled with a low, grating whir—the death rattle of four AA batteries being sacrificed to power the twitching goalie-effigies. From my observation post atop the bookcase, I watched my human hunch over the arena, flicking a lever with a loud *CLACK*. A tiny white ball shot forward, was predictably blocked by the jittering goalie, and then rolled back into a tray. The human cheered. I groomed a shoulder, unimpressed. This was not play; it was a pointless, repetitive ritual. For an hour, I observed the pattern. *Clack. Whizz. Block. Rattle.* The human’s focus was entirely on the goal. My focus was on the goalie. It was not a creature. It had no scent, no life, no fear. It was a metronome of incompetence, a sentry with a fatal, rhythmic flaw in its patrol. It slid left, it slid right, a mindless dance. Any predator of true intelligence could see the opening, the moment of perfect vulnerability between each robotic slide. The human, however, just kept smacking the lever, a brute-force approach devoid of any subtlety. Finally, I descended. I did not approach the human’s side of the arena, for I have no interest in their crude tools. I padded silently to the far end, my gray paws silent on the hardwood. I ignored the human’s cooing. My eyes, gold and sharp, were locked on the goalie. The human fired. *Clack. Whizz.* Just as the ball arrived, I timed my strike. Not at the ball, but at the goalie itself. A single, perfectly placed tap with my paw, just as it reached the apex of its slide. The mechanism jammed for a split second, a fatal hesitation. The little white ball sailed past it and into the net. Silence. The human stared, bewildered. I did it again on the next shot, and the one after. I was not playing their game of "hockey." I was demonstrating a masterclass in timing and exploitation. I was showing the flawed machine, and its even more flawed operator, what true precision looked like. The toy itself is a noisy bore, a monument to simple-minded amusement. But as a tool for teaching my human a lesson in abject failure while I practice my predatory timing? For that, it is a device of exquisite, if unintended, genius. It may remain. For now.
