Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired what they call a "puzzle," a term I find deeply misleading. From my analysis, this "Blütenschale" by the German brand Schmidt is not a toy, but a self-imposed test of human patience. It consists of one thousand small, flat pieces of cardboard designed to occupy their clumsy hands and limited attention span for hours, even days. The primary appeal for me is not the questionable artistic choice of a baby in a flower pot, but the high-quality, sturdy box which promises to be a superior napping receptacle. The myriad of tiny pieces also present a delightful opportunity to individually test the laws of physics by batting them under every piece of furniture in the house, should I grow bored of the human's slow, methodical clicking.
Key Features
- Puzzle design: Photo Art
- Puzzle Artist: Geddes, Anne
- Level of difficulty: Advanced, adults
- Warning: Please note Not suitable for children under 36 months.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began with a crackle of plastic wrap, a sound that always piques my interest. My human laid the formidable blue box on the large table in the sunbeam—*my* sunbeam, I should note. The brand, Schmidt, had a certain austere authority to it that I respected. This was no flimsy, disposable affair. Then came the deluge. A thousand little cardboard shapes, a chaotic mosaic of muted greens, soft pinks, and the unsettlingly fleshy tones of a human infant, spilled across the table. My human called it "starting." I called it "making a mess." I watched from my throne on the back of the sofa, unimpressed. For the next several evenings, I observed the ritual. The human would hunch over the table, sorting, turning, muttering. They separated the flat-edged pieces, a primitive first step, and began to construct a frame. It was a slow, agonizing process, like watching a slug paint a mural. I would occasionally patrol the perimeter of the table, my soft gray form a silent specter in the lamplight, my white paws making no sound. I’d sniff a piece here or there. They all smelled the same: bland paper and human desperation. The image slowly taking shape was, as I suspected, aesthetically baffling. Why would one want to stare for hours at a picture of a wrinkled, bald creature that wasn't even a cat? One evening, deep into the project, a crucial moment of drama unfolded. A piece, a tiny sliver showing the corner of the baby’s eye, was missing. The human searched, sighing with a theatrical frustration I knew well. They checked the floor, the box, their pockets. They did not, of course, think to check the small, decorative bowl on the mantelpiece. I had, several days prior, identified that piece as the narrative linchpin of the entire image and decided to curate it, carrying it gently in my mouth to a place of honor. After allowing an appropriate amount of suffering to unfold, I leaped silently onto the mantel, stretched languidly, and nudged the piece with my nose. It fell with a soft clatter onto the hearth. The human’s gasp of pure joy was my reward. The art itself was a bore, but my role as the silent, all-knowing curator of their little passion project? Exquisite.
