Pete's Expert Summary
Ah, yes, another offering from the humans. This appears to be a flotilla of garishly colored plastic vessels, ostensibly for "bathtime." Let's be clear: anything designed for use in the Great Wet Place is immediately suspect. The primary appeal seems to be that they float, which is of no consequence to a creature of my refinement, and that they can be stacked. Now, stacking... that has potential. A tower is simply a challenge, an invitation to introduce a bit of healthy chaos into the environment. The numbers printed on the side are a transparent attempt at "education," a concept humans apply to their young with the subtlety of a thrown shoe. For me, these are either future drowning hazards or, if kept appropriately dry, a moderately interesting, if primitive, architectural deconstruction kit.
Key Features
- 10 Bath Boats: This colorful play set includes 10 stackable and tiny hands-friendly boats that float and connect!
- Numbered Boats: Featuring the numbers 1 through 10, these boats are great to practice counting with.
- Developmental Toys: Improve fine motor skills and color recognition as you play!
- Indoor & Outdoor: Make a splash in the tub or scoop up some sand at the beach!
- Recommended Age: These bath toys are recommended for babies 6 months +
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The package arrived with the usual fanfare—that is to say, my human made a series of cooing noises and tore it open with the clumsy enthusiasm only a biped can muster. Out spilled a cascade of plastic, a rainbow of hollow disappointments. I observed from my post on the velvet armchair, giving my white bib a perfunctory lick. They were boats. Ten of them. I could smell the faint, sterile odor of the factory, a scent utterly devoid of intrigue. The human, whom I shall call The Warden for the purposes of this narrative, scooped them up and carried them toward the Chamber of Unspeakable Dampness. I shuddered. A clear misallocation of resources. Later that evening, I found the fleet abandoned on the living room rug. The Warden had apparently attempted to construct a monument to poor taste, a wobbly, multi-colored tower that leaned precariously to the left. It was an eyesore, an insult to the carefully curated feng shui of my napping space. I padded over, my gray paws silent on the plush carpet. My initial instinct, of course, was to deliver a single, decisive blow. But that felt so... common. I am an artist of destruction, not a mere vandal. I peered closer, my whiskers twitching as they brushed against the hull of the boat marked with a "10." My plan formed, elegant in its simplicity. This was not about toppling. This was about curation. I began my work not at the base, but in the middle. With a surgeon's precision, I hooked a claw under the lip of the "7" boat—a fine, magenta number—and slid it from its perch. The top three vessels clattered to the floor with a satisfying, hollow rattle. This was not chaos; this was commentary. I then proceeded to re-organize the fallen. I placed the "2" boat (representing the two paltry meals I receive per day) inside the "5" boat (for the five additional snacks I rightfully deserve). The "1" boat was swatted under the sofa, a statement on its lonely insignificance. The Warden returned to find my masterpiece. "Oh, Pete! You're playing with the boats!" they chirped, completely missing the point of my carefully constructed protest installation. They saw play; I had delivered a scathing critique of their stewardship. They scooped up the pieces, laughing, and restacked them in their original, illogical order. The ignorance was staggering. Still, the tactile sensation of hooking the plastic, the delightful clatter, the sheer power of architectural rearrangement... it had its charms. These boats are utterly useless for their intended, water-logged purpose, but as a medium for expressing my creative and political dissatisfaction? Conditionally approved. So long as they never, ever see a drop of water.
