Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided wisdom, has presented me with a "toy" from a brand called Melissa & Doug, which seems to specialize in objects for undeveloped minds. This contraption is a flat piece of wood with crude, brightly colored effigies of farm animals set into it. Each piece has a large, almost comically oversized, wooden knob, presumably for easy batting. The alleged purpose is a "puzzle," an insultingly simple matching game for creatures that can't yet control their own drool. While the intellectual stimulation is nonexistent for a feline of my caliber, I must admit the potential for chaos is high. The knobs seem perfect for hooking a claw into, and the individual wooden animal pieces would likely slide magnificently across the hardwood floors, ideally coming to rest in the dark abyss beneath the sofa. A potential waste of my napping time, but a promising tool for domestic disruption.
Key Features
- Extra-thick wooden puzzle features jumbo wooden knobs for easy grasping
- Colorful farm artwork
- Bright colors and sweet illustrations of familiar objects
- Full-color, matching pictures appear underneath each piece
- Makes a great gift for infant and toddler girls and boys, ages 12 months to 2 years, for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object was placed on the rug before me with a cooing sound that always sets my teeth on edge. "Look, Pete! A puzzle!" The Staff clearly mistook my narrowed eyes for curiosity rather than the deep, abiding contempt I hold for such primitive entertainments. It was a detention facility, I realized, for a gang of poorly rendered farm animals. Their faces were frozen in expressions of vacant cheerfulness, a classic psychological tactic to disarm their captors. My mission, though unsolicited, was clear: I was to dismantle this organization. My first target was the cow, a splotchy character with a knob on its back like a handle for a cheap suitcase. I approached with deliberate, silent paws, my gray tuxedo blending into the afternoon shadows. I didn't bat at it wildly, as a lesser cat might. I extended a single, perfect claw and hooked it delicately under the knob. With a satisfying *thunk*, I pried the operative from its cell. The interrogation was brief. I stared into its painted eyes, sniffed its woody essence, and received no useful intelligence. Beneath it, on the board itself, was an identical image—a ghost left behind, a mocking reminder of its presence. Unacceptable. I dispatched the cow with a swift shove, sending it skittering into the dark nether-realm under the armchair. One by one, I performed these extractions. The sheep, whose painted wool looked suspiciously like clouds, was next. Then the horse, whose grin was far too wide for an innocent bystander. Each piece was liberated from its wooden prison and subjected to a rigorous sniff-test before being exiled to various corners of the room. The jumbo knobs were surprisingly effective anchor points for my work, allowing for a clean and efficient release every time. The floor was soon littered with the wooden discards of my successful operation, a beautiful landscape of my own making. The board, now empty save for the printed images of the vanquished, was finally clear. I stepped onto it, its slight hollowness echoing my triumph. The puzzle, as an intellectual exercise, was a failure. But as a tactical mission simulator? An outstanding success. The pieces offered excellent propulsion dynamics for floor hockey, and the board itself provided several new concave surfaces to investigate. It seems Melissa & Doug, despite their focus on the simple-minded, had accidentally created a superior apparatus for a feline agent of chaos. The equipment is deemed worthy. For now.
