Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a small, rectangular box from a brand called "Mattel Games," a purveyor of amusements clearly not designed with my superior intellect in mind. This product, "UNO," appears to be a stack of insipidly bright paper cards. The humans are meant to sit in a circle and match these flimsy rectangles by color or number, a task so primitive I suspect a moderately clever squirrel could master it in minutes. The only features of remote interest are the potential for the shiny cellophane wrapper to make a delightful crinkling sound and the possibility that an individual card, once liberated, could be an excellent vehicle for skittering across the hardwood floor. Otherwise, it seems like an elaborate ritual designed to distract my staff from their primary duty: adoring me.
Key Features
- The classic card game of matching colors and numbers.
- Special Action Cards and Wild Cards for unexpected excitement and game-changing fun.
- Use the Swap Hands cards to change hands with any other opponent.
- Write your own rules for game play with the Customizable Wild cards.
- Players take turns matching a card in their hand with the color or number of the card shown on the top of the deck.
- Special graphic symbols have been added to each card to help identify the color(s) on that card. This will allow players with ANY form of color blindness to easily play!
- Don’t forget to shout “UNO” when you only have one card remaining!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The low table in the living room, normally a convenient mid-level perch for observing my domain, had been commandeered. The humans huddled around it, their faces illuminated by the harsh overhead light, performing a strange rite with the colorful wafers they'd released from the box. I watched from the plush depths of the armchair, my gray tail giving a single, dismissive flick. They called it a game. I recognized it for what it was: a test of allegiance. My primary human, the one who knows precisely how to scratch behind my ears, was faltering. Her hand of cards was fanned out, a rainbow of poor decisions. The other human, the one who visits on weekends and smells of the outdoors, slammed a blue card down with a triumphant grunt. This was my moment. I rose, stretched languidly to display the full magnificence of my tuxedo markings, and hopped silently onto the table. I was not there to play; I was there to officiate. I navigated the treacherous landscape of discarded cards, my paws making no sound. I sniffed a yellow "Skip" card—it smelled of betrayal. I nudged a green "Reverse" card—a hint of chaos. My human was hesitating, caught between two choices. I walked deliberately toward her and placed a single, soft paw directly on top of the "Draw" pile. I looked her dead in the eye, narrowing my own to slits. The message was clear: *Do not draw. Trust your instincts. More importantly, trust mine.* She seemed to understand. Her shoulders relaxed. Instead of drawing, she confidently played a "Wild" card, a black talisman of immense power. "I choose red," she announced, and then laid down her final card, a red nine. "UNO!" the other human had forgotten to shout, a fatal error. My human was victorious. She scooped me into her arms, burying her triumphant face in my soft fur. I allowed it, purring like a finely tuned engine. This game was still a ridiculous waste of time, but as a tool for asserting my silent, strategic influence over my staff? It had proven its worth. It could stay.
