Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a shiny metal box which, upon further investigation (read: knocking it off the coffee table), revealed itself to be full of 112 thin, flat rectangles of processed tree. Apparently, this "UNO" contraption is a ritual where the larger primates stare intently at these colorful squares, make loud, sudden noises, and ignore the far more pressing matter of my empty food bowl. The potential for chaos is high—a well-timed leap could send a satisfying cascade of these cards fluttering to the floor, perfect for pouncing and shredding. The tin itself, if emptied of its mundane contents, might make an acceptable projectile for batting down the stairs. However, the primary function seems to involve prolonged periods of human concentration on something other than me, which is a fundamental design flaw in any household object.
Key Features
- UNO is the classic family card game that's easy to learn and so much fun to play!
- In a race to deplete your hand, match one of your cards with the current card shown on top of the deck by either color or number.
- Strategize to defeat your competition with special action cards like Skips, Reverses, Draw Twos and color-changing Wild cards.
- When you're down to one card, don't forget to shout 'UNO!'
- This fun family card game is perfect for adults, teens and kids 7 years old and up.
- UNO Tin comes with 112 cards and instructions in a sturdy tin that's great for storage and travel.
- Colorblind accessible! 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!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began, as many do, with my humans gathered around the low table in the living room, their faces illuminated by the harsh overhead light. They produced the metallic tin, the sound of its opening a dull clank that did little to stir me from my post on the back of the sofa. They were performing the ritual again, laying out the colorful tablets in a way that seemed both random and intensely serious. I watched through half-lidded eyes, judging their slow, clumsy movements. They would slap a card down, sometimes with a triumphant grunt, other times with a defeated sigh. It was, to be frank, dreadfully boring. My interest was only piqued when the game reached a fever pitch. The female shouted "UNO!" with a startling abruptness that caused my ears to twitch in irritation. In her excitement, she fumbled her last card, a vibrant red square with the number "7" on it. It fluttered from her hand and skidded under the edge of the sofa, landing directly in my territory. The game concluded, the humans dispersed, and the offering remained. I hopped down, my paws silent on the rug, and approached the forgotten tablet. It smelled of the human's hand lotion and cardboard. I gave it a tentative pat. It slid beautifully across the hardwood, a perfect sliver of motion and color. The next morning, I discovered the true nature of this so-called game. As the male human prepared to leave for his mysterious daily absence, I located the red "7" card from the night before. On a whim, driven by a desire to see it skate across the floor again, I nudged it out from under the sofa and pushed it directly into his path. He stopped, looked down, and chuckled. "Oh, you found this?" he said, picking it up. He then glanced at the clock, his eyes widening. He gave my head a quick, distracted scratch—seven seconds, I counted—before rushing out the door, nearly forgetting his briefcase. It was then I understood. The card was not a toy; it was an instrument of influence. That red "7" had commanded precisely seven seconds of affection before his departure. A revelation washed over me. This was no mere game of matching colors. It was a complex system of sigils for controlling the giants. A "Skip" card placed on a lap would surely mean they skip their screen-staring and attend to me. A "Draw Two" left by my food bowl was a clear directive for a double portion of salmon pâté. My initial disdain for this box of papers was foolish. The tin was not a toy box; it was an armory, and I, Pete, had just become its master strategist.
