Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a peculiar red artifact, a relic from a time before their kind discovered the superior entertainment of dangling a feather on a string. This "Merlin," as they call it, is a hard plastic slab that makes a series of frankly insulting beeps and flashes. It purports to offer "games of logic and skill," which is laughable, as the only logic I require is determining the optimal angle of approach to a full food bowl. The blinking lights have a minor, passing appeal, much like a distant firefly, but the object's complete lack of chewability or shreddability suggests it will ultimately be a waste of my considerable talents and a poor substitute for a well-earned nap in a sunbeam.
Key Features
- 6 challenging electronic games of logic, skill, and luck!
- Brand new&sealed in original Milton Bradley packaging!
- 3 AAA batteries included!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing sat on the rug, an obnoxiously cheerful red against the tasteful beige. The Human had tapped its buttons, creating a cacophony of digital chirps before abandoning it for some lesser task, like "paying bills." I circled it warily. It smelled of ancient dust and ozone, a scent of forgotten electronics. It was cold and unyielding beneath my paw, a stark contrast to my own magnificent, soft fur. I gave it a dismissive nudge, expecting it to do nothing. Instead, it lit up and emitted a three-note melody: *Bleep. Bli-deep. Bop.* I was about to turn away in disgust when a strange thing happened. Outside the window, a squirrel, who had been taunting me from a branch with impunity for weeks, suddenly lost its footing and tumbled unceremoniously into a puddle. It scurried away, utterly humiliated. I froze, my gaze snapping back to the red device. A coincidence, surely. But the timing… it was impeccable. The Merlin was silent now, its buttons dark, as if awaiting another command. Hesitantly, I reached out a paw, not with a random swat, but with intent. I carefully pressed a different sequence of the glassy keys. *Bweep-bop-bweeeep!* The sound was more complex this time, a discordant little tune. I waited, ears swiveling, scanning my domain for the effect. A moment later, from the kitchen, I heard the distinct, glorious sound of the automatic feeder’s motor whirring to life, dispensing a small, unscheduled portion of kibble. My heart quickened. This was no mere toy. This was not a game of "logic." This was a remote control for reality. The patterns of light and sound were not entertainment; they were incantations. The humans, in their simple-mindedness, saw a game. I, Pete, saw a scepter. I spent the rest of the afternoon methodically testing its power, my initial skepticism melting into a thrilling sense of omnipotence. A burst of warm air from a heating vent, a dropped pen from the Human’s desk, the sudden appearance of my favorite crumpled paper ball from under the sofa. The Milton Bradley company had, entirely by accident, created the most powerful feline artifact in existence. It was not a toy to be played with. It was an instrument to be mastered.
