Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired a small box of stiff, rectangular papers they call "Bible Trivia Flash Cards." From what I can gather by observing the smaller, more chaotic humans who visit, this is a tool for them to ask each other questions about a very, very old book. The cards themselves lack any inherent crinkle, feather, or enticing scent of catnip, making them fundamentally flawed from a design perspective. However, their 3 1/8" x 5 1/4" dimensions are precisely calibrated for being batted under the heaviest piece of furniture in the room. While a pathetic offering as a 'toy,' it might serve as a passable prop for demonstrating the futility of any activity that does not involve stroking my magnificent gray fur.
Key Features
- Ideal for Teaching
- For ages 6-12
- Handy 3 1/8" x 5 1/4" size
- 56 two-sided cards per pack
- 4 Categories of trivia; activities included
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The air in the sunroom, usually thick with the promise of a quality nap, was instead pierced by the high-pitched voice of the neighbor's small human. My human had invited it over for some sort of "educational playdate," a concept I find fundamentally offensive. They sat on the floor, a space I rightfully consider my secondary lounging territory, and from a small box, my human produced a stack of 56 glossy rectangles. My tail gave a single, irritated flick. Flat. Silent. Scentless. An utter failure on all sensory fronts. I observed from my perch on the heated window ledge as they began their ritual. "Okay, Noah," my human said to the child, whose name was apparently also Noah, a detail of staggering unoriginality. "First category: Old Testament. Who received Ten Commandments on a mountain?" The small human scrunched his face in thought. I, on the other hand, was contemplating the sheer audacity of it all. Commandments? I operate on a single, elegant commandment: "Thou shalt feed Pete." It has served this household well. They were wasting their time with the other nine. As their tedious game droned on, a single card was placed carelessly close to the edge of their circle. An opportunity. I flowed from the ledge to the floor with the silence of smoke, my tuxedo--patterned chest low to the ground. They were debating the number of apostles. Twelve, you fools. I have twelve designated napping spots and I know each one intimately. As they argued, I extended a single, perfect paw. The card’s corner was crisp, its surface smooth. With a practiced flick of my wrist, I hooked it and sent it skittering across the hardwood floor. It slid beautifully, making a soft *shhhhhff* sound before disappearing into the dark abyss under the antique radiator. The humans stopped their game. "Pete! Where did that card go?" my human asked, a familiar note of loving exasperation in her voice. The small human, Noah, peered under the radiator. "It's gone forever!" he wailed. I merely sat, washed a paw with detached grace, and met my human's gaze. The card was rubbish. But the act of archival, of curating a collection of lost objects in the forgotten spaces of the home? That was a game of supreme skill. This box of 55 remaining cards was no longer a teaching tool for them; it was an inventory of challenges for me. Verdict: The toy is a bore, but the *application* has immense potential. I shall permit it to remain.
