A photo of Pete the cat

Pete's Toy Box: Milton Bradley

Milton Bradley Board Games

By: Hasbro

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with a flat, colorful box from a brand called Hasbro, which I know primarily as a purveyor of loud, plastic objects for their smaller, more chaotic counterparts. This particular offering appears to be a "Grab & Go" game, a shrunken-down version of some human pastime meant for travel. I deduce its purpose is to keep their simple minds occupied when away from the full-sized altar of their television. For me, the appeal is twofold and contradictory: the tiny, eminently lose-able plastic pieces inside are an obvious choking hazard they will shriek about, making them irresistible to bat under the heaviest furniture, yet the entire affair is a monumental waste of human attention that could be better spent on chin scratches or can-opening.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The humans called the ritual "Connect 4." They hunched over a strange, blue, vertical grid, a cage of sorts, taking turns dropping small, colored discs into its slots. *Click. Clack.* The sound was methodical, hypnotic. One human commanded the discs of distilled sunlight, a vibrant yellow; the other controlled discs the color of a fresh mouse heart, a deep and satisfying red. They were trapping these essences, one by one, imprisoning them in a plastic lattice. I watched from my observation post on the arm of the sofa, my tail giving a slow, judgmental twitch. What was the purpose of this solemn ceremony? Were they building a ward against boredom? Appeasing some unseen god of geometry? My skepticism was, as always, profound. It was clearly another flimsy distraction. Yet, my eye caught a glint on the floor. A single yellow sun-disc had escaped its containment field. It lay there, shimmering with pathetic potential. This was my chance to intervene, to understand the source of their fascination. I slipped from my perch, my paws making no sound on the rug, a gray shadow on a mission of cosmic importance. I was not merely a cat; I was an anthropologist of the absurd, a scholar of the inane. I crept toward the fallen sun, my belly low to the ground. With a flick of my paw, a movement too swift for their dull eyes to track, I captured the disc. It skittered across the hardwood, a frantic, plastic sound that shattered the ritual's quiet intensity. I pounced again, batting it into the dark void beneath the credenza. I waited for a surge of power, for the energy of the captured sunlight to flow through me. Nothing. It was just a piece of plastic. A hollow, lightweight, and ultimately disappointing piece of plastic. One of the humans let out a sigh and mumbled something about finding it later. Their ritual was broken, their focus shattered, all because their "sun" was, in reality, a trifle. They soon abandoned the grid, leaving the half-finished pattern of suns and hearts to languish. The true prize, as is so often the case, was the box it came in. A perfect, cat-sized rectangle of sturdy cardboard, now empty and inviting. I hopped in, curled up, and began a purr of pure contentment. Let the humans trap their colors in plastic prisons. I had discovered the game's true purpose: to provide a superior napping vessel. The game itself is a failure, but its container is a triumph of function and design.
Image of Milton Bradley Board Games View Details

Milton Bradley A Question of Scruples (1986)

By: Milton Bradley

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with a relic from a bygone era, something called "A Question of Scruples." It's a box filled with little paper rectangles, apparently designed to make humans sit in a circle and drone on about "moral dilemmas." While the box itself presents a promising napping vessel of a certain vintage quality, and the cards within could offer a few minutes of satisfying batting practice, the core concept is a monumental waste of time. The humans will be entirely engrossed in their own hypothetical predicaments, forgetting their primary moral dilemma: whether my food bowl is precisely half-full or needs immediate topping off. It seems a tedious affair, destined to gather dust unless I decide the box is the perfect size for a strategic nap ambush.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The humans exhumed this dusty blue sarcophagus from the closet, an artifact from a time when their fur was bigger and their judgment clearly poorer. They called it "A Question of Scruples." The scent of aged cardboard and forgotten arguments wafted out as they opened it. They sat on the floor, a place I generally consider my exclusive territory, and began reading from the little cards, their voices filled with mock gravity. I observed from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation at this intrusion upon my evening peace. Then, the female human read one aloud. "You are a guest in a friend's home. You accidentally break a valuable antique. Do you confess?" The other humans murmured, pondering this simplistic puzzle. Confess? What a ridiculous notion. It reminded me of a far more complex situation I had faced just last week. I had discovered, through a feat of acrobatic prowess and sheer determination, that the large, rustling bag atop the pantry contained not the usual dry kibble, but a treasure trove of freeze-dried salmon treats. The *good* ones. The bag was precariously balanced. One well-aimed nudge would send it tumbling down in a glorious, fishy avalanche. My dilemma was profound, a true crucible of character. Do I unleash the salmon-pocalypse, risking a loud crash and the subsequent confiscation of my prize, not to mention a stern talking-to? Or do I exercise restraint, leaving the bag untouched in the hopes of a future, sanctioned handout? The humans' "broken antique" was a matter of simple replacement; my situation involved the potential loss of a life-altering quantity of salmon. The tension was unbearable. For a full ten seconds, I wrestled with my conscience, my id, and my very soul. In the end, of course, I sent the bag crashing to the floor. The humans can chatter all they want about their trivial little cards. They know nothing of real-world ethics. They have never faced the choice between immediate, overwhelming bliss and the vague possibility of future, lesser bliss. This "game" is a hollow charade, a play-acted morality for beings who have never had to decide whether to devour an entire bag of salmon treats before the slow-moving giants return to the kitchen. I am my own moral compass, and it always points toward the fish. The game is unworthy.
Image of Milton Bradley A Question of Scruples (1986) View Details

Milton Bradley Win, Lose or Draw - Party Edition (1988)

By: Milton Bradley

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has brought home a large, flat, rectangular object they call a "board game," a primitive form of entertainment from the ancient year of 1988. Based on the ensuing ritual, its purpose is to make a group of bipedal mammals gather around a table, wave their paws in the air, and make loud, rhythmic guessing noises that severely disrupt the household's carefully curated tranquility. The only redeeming qualities I can perceive are the flimsy paper pads, which seem ideal for future shredding, and the box lid itself, whose dimensions are nearly perfect for a nap. The game's core concept appears to be a colossal waste of energy that could be better spent perfecting the art of staring blankly at a wall.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The lid came off with a sigh of stale air, releasing the ghost of a party from a time before my nine lives began. My human spread the contents on the rug: cards, pads of paper, and a handful of tiny, chewable-looking pencils. They called it "Win, Lose or Draw," a relic from an era I could only imagine through the strange fashions depicted on the box. I approached with caution, my tuxedo fur immaculate against the worn shag carpet. The object of their focus was a single card, on which was printed a word: "Haircut." My male human took a pencil and began to scribble. What appeared on the paper was an abomination. A lopsided circle with frantic spikes erupting from the top, like a sea urchin having a seizure. "Head!" the female human shrieked. "Porcupine! Sun!" He shook his head, drawing more frantic lines. This was their art? This was their idea of play? I have coughed up hairballs with more aesthetic appeal and narrative cohesion. It was an insult to the very concept of form and beauty. I felt a deep, ancestral need to intervene, to educate these poor, artistically starved creatures. With the quiet dignity befitting my station, I rose and padded silently across the room. As the male human set down his pad in frustration, I saw my opening. I stepped gracefully onto the paper, leaving a single, perfect paw print in a blank corner. I then turned, dragging my tail lightly through his chaotic scribble, softening the harsh lines into something more abstract, more thoughtful. I looked up at them, expecting looks of dawning comprehension, of gratitude for my masterful touch. Instead, the female human scooped me up. "Oh, Pete, you're in the way, you silly boy!" She placed me on the sofa, far from my canvas. They wiped my masterpiece away and started a new, equally pathetic drawing. I sighed, a long, weary exhalation, and began to groom a perfectly clean patch of fur. It was clear they were a lost cause. The game was not for me; it was a symptom of their baffling simplicity. The little pencils, however, did roll quite nicely when batted under the radiator. I suppose every tragedy must have its silver lining.
Image of Milton Bradley Win, Lose or Draw - Party Edition (1988) View Details

Milton Bradley Stratego - The Classic Game of Battlefield Strategy 1986 Edition

By: Milton Bradley

Pete's Expert Summary

My Human, in a fit of what they call "nostalgia," has excavated this dusty cardboard sarcophagus from the Milton Bradley dynasty, circa 1986. Inside is something called Stratego, a "Game of Battlefield Strategy." For me, it appears to be a collection of delightful, hard plastic rectangles in two appealing primary colors, perfect for batting under the heaviest furniture, and a large, flat, gridded board that would make a superb napping platform. The potential for sensory enrichment via the musty, ancient scent of the box is high. However, the tedious ritual of the Humans moving the pieces back and forth according to some imaginary "rules" seems like a colossal waste of time that could be better spent admiring me.

Key Features

  • vintage 1986 original

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The box didn't just smell old; it smelled of forgotten campaigns. When my Human lifted the lid, a sigh of dormant history escaped, a scent of brittle paper maps and the faint, metallic tang of phantom trumpets. The Human saw blue and red plastic tiles. I saw two proud armies, their ranks frozen in time, their silent stories trapped within the cheap polymer. The Marshals, stiff with pride; the Miners, weary from their unseen work; and the Spies, my kindred spirits, holding their secrets close. They were not toys; they were prisoners of a long-concluded peace. My Human began arranging the red army, his fingers fumbling with their formations, utterly ignorant of the silent pleas of the pieces. He placed a Bomb next to a Scout—an amateurish, insulting arrangement. I could not abide this desecration. Leaping onto the table with the grace he so clearly lacked, I surveyed the board. The Human chortled, expecting me to simply bat a piece to the floor. Instead, I walked with deliberate purpose along the back rank of his forces. Using my nose, I nudged the single Red Spy, pushing it forward one square. I looked the Human dead in the eye. This was not a game of chance or idle swatting. This was a message. I was choosing my agent, the one piece that understands observation, stealth, and the art of the silent takedown. I was now a participant, a silent commander directing my chosen operative from the shadows. The Human, bless his simple heart, just thought I was being "cute" and moved my Spy back into its little square. He did not understand. He never does. I let him play his clumsy game. I observed from the arm of the chair, a gray-furred general watching a child play with toy soldiers that were anything but. When he inevitably grew bored and packed the pieces away, I hopped back onto the board, now empty and quiet. I curled up precisely over the central territory, the contested lakes, and began a deep, rumbling purr. The battle was over, and the field now belonged to the victor. It is a worthy object, not for its playability, but as a testament to strategic conflicts I can appreciate on a far deeper level. The board, I have decided, is now my throne.
Image of Milton Bradley Stratego - The Classic Game of Battlefield Strategy 1986 Edition View Details

Milton Bradley Battleship Game Replacement Ship Set of 5

By: Unknown Brand

Pete's Expert Summary

So, the human has presented me with what appears to be a small, defeated navy. A flotilla of five dull gray plastic objects, apparently "replacement ships" from some human tabletop ritual, produced by a brand so laughably obscure it's referred to as an "unknown entity." They lack any scent, feathers, or electronic allure. On the surface, they are an insult to my refined sensibilities. However, their true purpose is immediately obvious to a mind like mine: they are perfectly weighted, low-profile projectiles designed for skittering across hardwood floors and disappearing into the dark, dusty nether-realms beneath furniture, where human hands cannot follow. A potential exercise in causing minor, prolonged frustration, which always has some appeal.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The drop was made at 1400 hours, right in the middle of the Great Sun Puddle of the living room. My human, whom I shall refer to only as The Handler, placed the five gray assets on the gleaming floor and retreated. I observed from my perch on the velvet armchair, my tail giving a slow, contemplative twitch. The targets were crude, angular, and devoid of personality. This was not a gift of affection; this was a test from the "unknown entity" that had supplied them. A field test. I descended with the deliberate grace of a shadow, my paws silent on the wood. The mission: assess the assets' tactical viability. I began with the largest, the one they call "Aircraft Carrier." A gentle tap with one paw sent it skidding silently, almost frictionless, across the floor. Its trajectory was predictable, but its momentum was impressive. It came to a halt precisely under the edge of the entertainment center. Good. A solid candidate for long-term strategic placement. Next, I moved to the smaller vessels. The "Destroyer" and "Cruiser" were lighter, more erratic. A sharp bat sent them spinning, their movement chaotic and hard to track. Excellent for a frantic, multi-target engagement. It was the "Submarine," however, that truly showed promise. It was small, sleek, and hugged the ground. A single, well-aimed swat sent it directly into the open maw of the heating vent. A perfect shot. It was gone. Forever. A wave of profound satisfaction washed over me. Finally, only the tiny "Patrol Boat" remained. It looked pathetic, an afterthought. I toyed with it for a moment, nudging it with my nose, before picking it up delicately in my mouth. The hard plastic was unpleasant, but the task was necessary. I carried it to the kitchen and deposited it silently into the water bowl, where it floated for a moment before sinking. A message to The Handler: some assets are not meant for land. The test was complete. The conclusion: while aesthetically bankrupt, these crude implements provided a surprisingly robust and satisfying exercise in object relocation and permanent loss. They are worthy. For now.
Image of Milton Bradley Battleship Game Replacement Ship Set of 5 View Details

Funskool Scotland Yard Board Game (3-6 Players, 10+)

By: Funskool

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has procured a 'Scotland Yard Board Game' from a brand called 'Funskool.' From what I can gather, it's a flat, colorful square upon which the bipeds simulate a chase, a pathetic attempt to replicate my own elegant and deadly pursuits of dust bunnies. One of them gets to be a mysterious 'Mr. X,' a role for which I am clearly overqualified. While the board itself presents a premium, centrally-located napping surface, and the various small playing pieces and paper 'tickets' show promise for being batted under the heaviest furniture, the overall activity seems designed to distract the humans from their primary purpose: adoring me. A potentially useful collection of small, losable objects, but a frivolous use of their time.

Key Features

  • A breathtaking game of dodging, racing, cornering and chasing
  • One of the players takes on the role of Mr X
  • Job is to move from point to point around the map of London taking taxis, buses or subways
  • Set includes a playing board, log book, playing pieces, cards and travel tickets
  • Great family game

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The humans unfurled the map of 'London' with an air of theatrical gravity. From my observation post on the arm of the sofa, I watched with detached amusement. They spoke in hushed tones of 'Mr. X,' a phantom moving through the city, his location known only periodically. They, the 'detectives,' would try to corner him. An exercise in futility, I thought, as I watched them clumsily move their little plastic pawns. They wouldn't recognize a true master of stealth if he were currently shedding on their favorite throw pillow. The game commenced. The humans leaned in, furrowing their brows and consulting their little log book. It was all very serious. My moment came when the female human declared a 'snack truce' and retreated to the food-preparation-zone. The male human was momentarily distracted by a glowing rectangle in his hand. The board lay undefended. This was not a game; it was an invitation. I am the shadow in the corner of the eye, the silence between floorboard creaks. I am the *real* Mr. X. I descended from my perch, a river of silent gray fur. My target was not a location on the board, but the very concept of their game. My paw, a tool of surgical precision, shot out and hooked one of the little paper 'travel tickets.' Not with a clumsy swipe, but a deliberate, calculated hook of a single claw. I claimed a 'Taxi' ticket and, carrying it delicately in my mouth, vanished into the 'underground'—the dark, dusty labyrinth beneath the entertainment center. I deposited the ticket there, a clue for a game they didn't even know they were playing. When the humans returned, the game resumed, but a subtle chaos had been introduced. "I'm sure I had one more taxi ticket," the male human muttered, his confidence fractured. They searched. They recounted. They accused each other of misplacing it. I watched from the shadows, a faint, smug purr vibrating in my chest. They could play their little game on the board, but the true chase, the real mystery of the missing ticket, was happening all around them. They were merely pawns in my far more sophisticated entertainment. This 'Funskool' set, I decided, was not a waste. It was a wonderful new medium for my art.
Image of Funskool Scotland Yard Board Game (3-6 Players, 10+) View Details

Milton Bradley Electronic Handheld Merlin

By: Milton Bradley

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.
Image of Milton Bradley Electronic Handheld Merlin View Details

Milton Bradley Upwords: A 3-Dimensional Word Game (1988)

By: Milton Bradley

Pete's Expert Summary

My Human has unearthed another relic from her ancient past, a flat, gridded plastic plain called "Upwords." Apparently, the goal is to arrange small, clackety squares with cryptic markings on them into stacks, a ritual that seems to absorb all of her attention. From my perspective, the game itself is a colossal waste of perfectly good lap-availability. The true value, of course, lies not in the "3-Dimensional word building" but in the sixty-four individual letter tiles. Each one is lightweight, smooth, and eminently battable, possessing the ideal velocity and clatter for skittering across the hardwood floor and disappearing under the sofa, a far more engaging game I call "Lost Forever."

Key Features

  • Build words to score the most points
  • A 3-Dimensional game like scrabble but words can stack
  • Game board is 8 x 8 squares in size; includes 64 letter tiles
  • For 2 to 4 players ages 10 years and over

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The ceremony began, as it always does, with the rattling of the sacred objects. The Human and her friend hunched over the blue grid under the low light of the floor lamp, their faces masks of intense, pointless concentration. They called it "game night," I called it "an appalling ignorance of my dinner schedule." They drew the little white squares from a bag, placing them with a reverence I usually reserve for a freshly opened can of salmon. Words began to form. P-A-W. H-I-S-S. Amateurs. I watched from the arm of the chair, my tail twitching in mild contempt. Then, something changed. The Human’s friend, with a triumphant little smirk, placed an ‘F’ on top of the ‘P’ in ‘PAW’, then added an ‘L.’ The structure was now two tiles high. F-L-A-W. A verticality I hadn’t anticipated. My disdain curdled into curiosity. This wasn’t just a flat, boring landscape; it was a construction site. My mind, usually occupied with calculating the trajectory of sunbeams, began to see the potential. These were not letters; they were bricks. They were building a strange, unstable city right there on the coffee table. I crept from my perch, my movements silent, my tuxedo-furred chest low to the ground. This was no longer about batting tiles; it was about structural integrity assessment. I saw a precarious stack of three letters spelling J-E-T. It was an affront to gravity, an invitation to chaos. I watched, waited for the perfect moment when both humans were staring at their tile racks, and then I leaped. I landed not with a crash, but with the delicate precision of a master artisan. My paw rose, and with a single, gentle tap, I sent the J-E-T tower tumbling down, the tiles scattering with a deeply satisfying clatter. The humans sighed in exasperation, but I knew the truth. I wasn't destroying their game; I was improving it. I was testing their shoddy workmanship, demonstrating the elegant beauty of entropy. They saw a ruined word; I saw a successful demolition. This "Upwords," I decided, was a worthy diversion. It provides not just projectiles, but architectural follies practically begging for a feline wrecking ball. It is an excellent toy, though its intended players clearly have no idea how to use it properly.
Image of Milton Bradley Upwords: A 3-Dimensional Word Game (1988) View Details

Milton Bradley Trivial Pursuit: SNL Saturday Night Live DVD Edition Game

By: Milton Bradley

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.
Image of Milton Bradley Trivial Pursuit: SNL Saturday Night Live DVD Edition Game View Details