Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has procured what appears to be a convoy of colorful, wooden blocks on wheels. The brand, Melissa & Doug, screams "sturdy" and "educational," two words that are utterly useless to a cat of my refined sensibilities. These eight little cars are meant to be linked by some unseen force—"magnets," the human calls them—and rolled about by the smaller, noisier human. While the smooth, solid wood construction might feel satisfying under a paw-swat, and the clattering sound it makes when pushed off a table has potential, its primary function seems to be distracting the toddler. I suppose a distracted toddler is a quiet toddler, which is a net positive for my napping schedule. The wooden storage tray, however, looks suspiciously like a perfectly sized, albeit compartmentalized, bed.
Key Features
- 8-piece wooden train set, each wheeled car approximately 3 inches long
- Magnetic couplers link the cars together
- Solid wood construction; trains store neatly in divided wooden tray
- Sized to play perfectly with Melissa & Doug activity rugs; great for developing fine and gross motor skills, counting, and problem solving
- Makes a great gift for preschoolers, ages 3 to 6, for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived under the pretense of being a gift for the small human, but I knew better. Everything that enters this house is subject to my scrutiny. They called it a "train," a line of eight wooden vassals presented in a tray like a box of cheap, inedible chocolates. I observed from my perch on the armchair as the small human clumsily linked them, creating a long, colorful centipede that snaked across my favorite rug. It was an affront, a gaudy procession marching through my sovereign lands. I decided to study this phenomenon they called "magnetism." My initial expedition involved a cautious, low-to-the-ground approach. I nudged the last car, a stubby blue caboose, with my nose. Instead of simply moving, it pulled the next car along with it. How peculiar. I nudged it harder, and the whole sluggish chain moved as one. This was inefficient. An entity with so many moving parts should be easy to disrupt, yet it clung together with this strange, invisible stubbornness. The human was trying to teach me about physics, I presumed, and I was not an unwilling student, merely a skeptical one. The breakthrough came by accident. In a fit of pique at its insolent solidarity, I delivered a sharp swat to the coupling between two of the middle cars. There was a satisfying *clack* as the invisible bond was broken. The centipede was bisected. A thrill ran through me—I had discovered its weakness. This was not a toy for batting; it was a challenge of strategic disassembly. I spent the next ten minutes practicing my new art form, darting in and out, delivering precise strikes to sever the train at every joint. The small human would reassemble it, and I, the patient saboteur, would dismantle it again. It was a fine game. The toy itself is dreadfully boring, but the invisible force holding it together provides a worthy, and conquerable, foe.
