Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my human has procured a stack of what the lesser species calls 'flash cards.' These are stiff, rectangular pieces of paperboard, ostensibly for teaching the small, noisy humans how to comprehend the passage of time—a concept I have mastered through the precise science of sunbeam-drifting and stomach-rumbling. The cards themselves, with their sturdy build and satisfyingly slick surface, possess a certain potential for being skittered across the hardwood floor. The little hole punched in the corner is a point of interest, a tiny window of opportunity. However, the printed clock faces are an absolute snooze. Ultimately, it’s a tool for rudimentary education masquerading as a potential floor-hockey puck, a tragic waste of good cardstock.
Key Features
- 56 durable, double-sided cards
- Teaching tips included
- Hole punched for organizing and storage
- Each card is 3-1/8" x 5-1/8"
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The package arrived with the scent of a thousand sterile classrooms, an odor of processed wood pulp and institutional ink that offends my delicate nostrils. My human, with her usual lack of ceremony, ripped it open and spilled the contents onto the living room rug. Fifty-six identical rectangles, each bearing the cryptic sigil of a clock face. She called them "Time Cards," cooing about how they would be "so helpful." Helpful for what, I wondered. Announcing the precise minute of my dinner's tardiness? I remained aloof on my armchair, observing this new clutter with deep suspicion. These were not toys. They were artifacts of a conspiracy. I waited until she was gone, lost in the hum of the kitchen. I descended from my throne and padded silently toward the scattered cards. They felt smooth and cool under my paws. I nudged one with my nose. 7:15. What did it mean? Was it a coordinate? A secret agent's call sign? I saw another sheet of paper nearby, labeled "Teaching Tips." Ah, the cipher key. My human thought she was preparing a lesson; in reality, she had brought home a dossier. I pushed the 7:15 card aside and uncovered one that read 2:30. A chill ran through my perfectly groomed fur. 2:30 was the exact time the monstrous vacuum cleaner had roared to life yesterday. It wasn't a time; it was an omen. My mission became clear. I was not to play with these cards; I was to interpret them. They were a scattered timeline of the day's potential pleasures and horrors. I began to sort them, a feline oracle deciphering the day's fate. A card showing 9:00 was pushed toward the east-facing window, where the morning sun would soon create a perfect napping rectangle. A 12:00 card was slid pointedly toward my empty food dish. This was a language the human might understand. I found one showing 4:00, the hour the loud children next door usually returned, and batted it swiftly under the sofa, banishing it to the dust-bunny dimension. Let the human think I'm playing. Let her chuckle at my "antics." She is oblivious to the crucial work I am doing. These cards, these "Teacher Created Resources," are not for learning. In my paws, they are for shaping reality. I am no longer just a pampered cat; I am the household's temporal guardian, the master of its schedule. I glance at the 5:00 card—the hour of wet food—and place it directly on my human's pillow. It is not a request. It is a prophecy. The cards have spoken.
