Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in what I can only assume is a fit of madness brought on by staring at the tiny glowing rectangle for too long, has presented me with schematics for a "Super Summit Slide." It appears to be a colossal, garishly green plastic chute designed to be attached to a five-foot-tall wooden structure, likely for the noisy, clumsy, small humans that sometimes infest the backyard. From my perspective, the true prize is not the slide itself—a glorified rapid-exit ramp—but the five-foot platform it connects to. Such a perch would offer an unparalleled vantage point for supervising garden operations and judging the inferior hunting skills of the local robins. The slide might offer a swift, if undignified, descent in case of a sudden treat emergency, but the sheer effort of its "assembly" promises a significant disruption to my napping schedule, making me highly skeptical of its overall value.
Key Features
- Durable, 3-piece plastic construction; Assembled: 102.5 x 21 x 8
- Includes assembly hardware and fully illustrated instructions; mounting hardware not included
- Mounts to a 5' Platform. Materials - High Density Polyethylene
- Proudly made in the USA with a lifetime against cracks and breaks
- Recommended for children between the ages of 2 to 10 years old and has a weight capacity of 250 lbs.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The monstrosity arrived in three giant, green pieces, like the dismembered limbs of some plastic behemoth. My human spent the better part of a Saturday grunting and consulting baffling pictograms, a process I supervised from the cool, elegant safety of the windowsill. He was building a tribute, a great, green tongue lolling out from the wooden fort in the yard, and it offended my aesthetic sensibilities. I watched as this "Swing-N-Slide" was bolted into place, a silent, unmoving invader in my territory. It smelled of industry and artificiality, a stark contrast to the rich, earthy aromas of the gopher holes I occasionally inspect. For two days, it was a silent war. I would sit on the patio, narrowing my eyes, letting the green giant know it was being watched. I refused to grant it the dignity of my attention, even when the small humans shrieked with delight while rocketing down its slick surface. Their joy was irrelevant. This was a matter of territory, not of play. The structure was an affront, a challenge to my sovereignty over the backyard kingdom. It had to be understood who the true master of this domain was. Then came the third evening, under the cloak of a deep blue dusk. The air was still, the yard empty. It was my time. I approached the base of the slide not as a plaything, but as a mountain to be conquered. To slide down it would be to submit to its intended purpose, an act of surrender. I would not. Instead, I began to climb *up*. My claws found little purchase on the smooth polyethylene, but I am Pete, and my determination is as sharp as my teeth. I scrabbled and scraped, a slow, arduous ascent up the belly of the beast. It was a pilgrimage of defiance. Reaching the summit—the five-foot-high platform—was a moment of pure triumph. I stood there, my gray and white tuxedo fur glowing in the twilight, and surveyed my kingdom from this new, superior vantage point. The world was spread beneath me. I could see the entire fence line, the bird bath, and the weak spot in the neighbor's hedge. The slide was no longer an opponent; it was merely the grand, albeit tacky, staircase to my new throne. It had been subjugated. It was not a toy to be played with, but a monument to my own magnificent ascent. It was, I decided, worthy.
