Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a brightly colored box filled with small, flat pieces of paper. Based on my observations of their species, this is a "game," an organized ritual designed to create loud noises and distract them from their primary purpose: attending to my needs. The paper rectangles contain instructions for them to ask each other inane questions and perform "silly challenges," which I can only assume means flailing their limbs in a manner that disrupts my nap. The box itself shows some promise as a potential napping vessel, provided it is of sturdy construction. The cards, once inevitably scattered across the floor, could serve as adequate targets for a brief, condescending batting session. Overall, the activity seems to be a significant expenditure of human energy for little to no feline benefit, save for the box.
Key Features
- Get ready for the best family game night as you laugh and learn new things about each other with this fun card game.
- See who really knows the family best as you answer fun questions about each other while sparking interesting conversations.
- Create hilarious family memories as you compete and perform silly challenges together.
- Super easy to learn and play - a perfect game for families with kids 8 and up, teens and adults.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began with an unwelcome crackle of cellophane. My human, the one I permit to fill my food bowl, placed the garish blue box on the low table in the center of the room, a piece of furniture I generously allow them to use as a repository for their strange artifacts. They gathered, their faces lit with a foolish sort of glee, and began pulling out the thin paper rectangles. I watched from my throne atop the velvet armchair, my tail giving a slow, deliberate thump of disapproval. They called it a "game." I called it an organized disruption. The questions began. "Who is Mom's celebrity crush?" A ridiculous inquiry. The answer, obviously, is me. I am a celebrity in this household, and she is certainly crushed when I deign to leave a dead leaf at her feet. They laughed at their own incorrect answers. Then came the "challenges." The smaller human was instructed to "act like a T-Rex for 30 seconds." He proceeded to stomp around the room, emitting pathetic roars and holding his arms in a bent, useless fashion. An insult to the noble predators of old, but it did have the side effect of shaking a few crumbs loose from the snack bowl. I made a mental note of their location for later. The true test of my patience came when my primary human drew a card. "Tell a story, but every sentence has to rhyme." What followed was a linguistic catastrophe, a crime against sound and sense that made my ears flatten against my skull. It was an assault on the quiet dignity of my home. This could not stand. As she fumbled for a word to rhyme with "orange"—a fool's errand—I saw my opening. With the fluid grace only a creature of my standing possesses, I leaped from the armchair to the table. I did not run; I *flowed*. My path, entirely by accident, of course, intersected with the precarious stack of cards. They cascaded onto the floor like a paper waterfall. Amid the humans' surprised gasps, I selected a small pile of the "challenge" cards, curled up neatly upon them, and began to purr, a deep and resonant sound that clearly declared the game over. The box was mediocre, the game a noisy nuisance, but the opportunity to so elegantly assert my dominance? Priceless. It is worthy, but only as a prop in my own superior games.
