Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in what I can only assume was a moment of profound confusion, presented me with this primitive wooden domicile, apparently designed by a dog of questionable artistic talent. It's a so-called "Shape Sorter," a contraption intended to teach small, loud humans the difference between a circle and a square, a task I mastered somewhere between my second and third naps of life. The brand, Melissa & Doug, at least suggests a certain sturdy, no-nonsense construction, which I appreciate; no flimsy plastic here. While the "educational" aspect is a complete waste of my superior intellect, I must concede a passing interest in the small, wooden blocks. They appear to be of an excellent size and weight for batting under the sofa, which could provide a solid afternoon of entertainment long after the intended user has grown bored and moved on to smearing yogurt on the walls.
Key Features
- Take-along Blue's Clues & You shape-sorter house with built-in handle, 3 gears to spin, bungee-hinged flaps, and a 9-piece double-sided flip puzzle
- Includes 5 colorful wooden shaped blocks to sort in holes in the roof, and wooden Blue and Magenta shape-sorting play pieces that fit through the door
- Handle for easy portability; roof opens for easy access to pieces; encourages fine motor skills and color and shape recognition
- Blue’s Clues & You promotes kindergarten-readiness, inspiring confidence, empowerment, and kindness in preschoolers as they develop their problem-solving, social, and developmental skills through play
- Makes a great gift for toddlers and preschoolers, ages 18 months to 4, for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived on a Tuesday, a day I typically reserve for judging the birds from the safety of the windowsill. My human placed it on the floor with a coo, calling it "Blue's House." A house? It was more of a garish shack, a riot of primary colors that offended my sophisticated gray-and-white aesthetic. I am a cat of refined tastes, you see, and this looked like a clown's toolbox. The human demonstrated its alleged purpose, pushing a wooden star through a star-shaped hole. "See, Pete? It's a puzzle!" A puzzle. How quaint. I gave her a slow blink of utter disdain and began meticulously grooming a single, perfect whisker. I ignored the wooden monstrosity for a full hour, a strategic power move. But its presence gnawed at me. The two wooden figures, a blue dog and a magenta… whatever-it-was, stood sentry at the door. An affront. This was my territory. I approached with silent paws, a silver shadow against the hardwood. My first point of investigation was not the shapes, but the three gears on the side. I hooked a single, sharp claw into a cog and gave it a flick. It spun with a satisfying, soft *whirrrr* of wood on wood. A simple mechanism, yes, but a pleasant tactile sensation. This had potential. My attention then turned to the so-called "clues." The little wooden blocks, scattered by the human's clumsy demonstration. I selected the red circle. It was smooth, solid, and felt substantial under my paw. The hole in the roof gaped at me, an invitation to conform. I refused. Conformity is for dogs. Instead, with a calculated flick, I sent the red circle skittering across the floor. It slid beautifully, banking off the leg of the coffee table before coming to a rest in the shadows under the armchair. Ah, now *this* was a game. One by one, I "liberated" the shapes from the tyranny of the sorting holes, turning the living room into my personal hockey rink. The house itself remains an eyesore, a monument to my human's poor judgment. But its components? Excellent. I declare them worthy of being hunted and, eventually, lost forever.
