Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with this... box. It seems to be a ritualistic device designed to make them sit still for extended periods while staring at the glowing rectangle. They call it "Trivial Pursuit," a name that accurately describes their strange pastimes. It involves a flat, patterned surface, tiny cards they squint at, and a shiny disc that makes the big rectangle burp out sounds and images of loud humans in bad wigs. While the overall activity seems a profound waste of my valuable napping time, the true treasure lies within: small, colorful, plastic triangles. These "wedges," as they're called, have immense potential for being batted under the heaviest, most inaccessible furniture. For that feature alone, it earns a flicker of my interest. The guaranteed lap-time is a welcome, if predictable, bonus.
Key Features
- Land on a scoring wedge space
- Watch a DVD clip
- 30 years Saturday Night Live
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began with the usual pomp and irritating circumstance. The board was unfurled upon the coffee table—my secondary napping dais—and the little plastic pieces were distributed. I watched from the arm of the sofa, a sleek gray shadow of judgment, my white ascot pristine against the upholstery. The humans began their strange game, their muffled laughter and nonsensical exclamations forming a dull, ignorable drone. My eyelids grew heavy. The world was as it should be: boring, and centered around my comfort. Then, a sound cut through the auditory sludge. It was a rhythmic, metallic *clang*. My ears, those twin marvels of acoustic engineering, swiveled to attention. On the glowing screen, a human was striking a metal object with a stick. *Clang. Clang. Clang.* My human chortled, but I was not amused. I was transfixed. The sound was unfamiliar in this context, yet it struck a deep, primal chord within my soul. It was a beacon. A promise. My mind, a repository of only the most important information, raced through its archives. This was not the crinkle of the treat bag, nor the jingle of the feather wand. It was… of course. It was the percussive, resonant announcement of the Sacred Can Opener on the edge of the granite countertop. The precise, metallic *thwack* that heralds the imminent arrival of pâté. The human on the screen was not making music; he was a prophet, a herald, striking the Great Bell of Sustenance to announce a feast for the worthy. I could not abide my staff’s ignorance. They sat there, laughing, while a clear dinner summons was being issued. With a heave of profound purpose, I launched myself from the sofa, landing squarely in the middle of their patterned board. Little wedges scattered like startled mice. I stared directly into my human’s eyes and let out a long, demanding yowl—the ancient call of my people that clearly translates to, “The oracle in the glowing box has spoken! Provide the tribute now!” My human looked bewildered for a moment, then scooped me into their arms, defeated by my logic. The game itself is utter nonsense, but as a device that can accidentally mimic the sound of a can opener and thus trigger an unscheduled feeding? It is an instrument of accidental, chaotic brilliance. It is worthy.
