Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a flat, heavy box from a German brand called Schmidt. Inside, apparently, are one thousand small, flat squares designed to form a single, larger image of what appears to be a fleshy plant creature wearing a flower. They call this a "puzzle," and the box claims it has "educational values" including "hear," which is patently absurd unless it screams when I inevitably knock a piece off the table. While the primary function of this "toy" is to keep the slow, clumsy primate occupied for hours, the true value lies in its components. A thousand tiny, lightweight, skittering pieces are a thousand opportunities for a spirited game of floor hockey. The puzzle itself is a waste of a perfectly good napping surface, but its constituent parts show immense promise.
Key Features
- Educational values: Touch, see, hear
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it always does, with a theatrical clearing of the great mahogany altar they call the "dining table." My human, with a reverence I usually reserve for a freshly opened can of tuna, placed the box upon it. The lid was lifted, and a sealed bag of what looked like shredded cardboard was produced. With a crinkling roar, the contents were unceremoniously dumped, creating a veritable mountain range of multicolored fragments. I observed this ritual from my post on the armchair, feigning disinterest. It was, I deduced, a portrait of a rather unfortunate infant stuffed into a pot, pretending to be a cactus. Humans have such bizarre artistic tastes. For days, the landscape of the table shifted. My human would hunch over it, muttering, sorting the edges, grouping colors, a slow and tedious process that held zero appeal. I, however, had my own project. I had identified the Prime Piece. It was a single, unassuming brown fragment from the pot section, perfectly shaped for sliding, with a satisfyingly smooth finish. Each night, after the human retired, I would leap silently onto the table, locate my chosen piece among the chaos, and bat it with precision to the far corner, a small act of defiance. Each morning, the human would find it and return it to the brown pile, none the wiser. This was our silent, nightly dance. The game changed when the puzzle was nearly complete. Only a single, gaping hole remained in the terracotta pot. My human searched, groaning with a theatricality that was frankly insulting to my own dramatic sensibilities. They sifted through the remaining pieces. They checked the box. They looked on the floor. The Prime Piece was missing. I watched from under the table, the piece resting just beside my paw, where I had expertly guided it during my last sortie. The human’s frustration was a delicious nectar. After a full ten minutes of this pathetic display, I decided to grant a small mercy. With a delicate nudge of my nose, I pushed the piece out from under the table skirt, directly into a patch of sunlight. The human gasped, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. "Oh, there it is! You found it, Pete!" they cooed, scooping it up. They believed *I* had helped *them*. I allowed a brief, condescending rumble of a purr. They placed the final piece, completing the image of the strange potted baby. The puzzle itself was a static bore, but the game it had facilitated—a protracted campaign of psychological manipulation centered on a single piece of cardboard—was an unparalleled success. The toy, therefore, is not the puzzle. The toy is the human's fragile grip on sanity, and for that, it is of the highest possible quality.
