Pete's Expert Summary
Ah, yes. The Human presented me with this... *educational device*. It appears to be a slab of processed tree with crude animal caricatures painted on it. The gimmick is that when one of the chunky, poorly-sanded wooden pegs is placed into its corresponding depression, a tinny, startlingly loud sound erupts from a hidden speaker. I can see how this might entertain a creature with a brain the size of a walnut, but for a feline of my intellectual caliber, the appeal is fleeting. The sounds themselves—a cow, a pig, a sheep—are a vulgar mockery of the real thing. However, I will concede that the individual pegs, being made of wood, might be satisfying to bat under the sofa, forcing the Human to retrieve them on her hands and knees. A minor diversion, but a diversion nonetheless.
Key Features
- 8-piece wooden peg puzzle makes realistic farm animal sounds when pieces are placed in puzzle board
- Pictures of animals under pieces help with matching
- TIP: Puzzle has light-activated sensors; for best results, expose the sensor by removing a piece in a brightly lit room, then make the sound play by replacing the piece in the board
- Promotes matching, fine motor skills, and language development
- Makes a great gift for girls and boys, ages 2 to 5, for hands-on, screen-free play; 2 AAA batteries required, not included
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a cacophony of crinkling plastic wrap, an offense to my delicate ears. My human, whom I'll call The Provider, placed it on the floor with the sort of reverence usually reserved for a fresh can of tuna. "Look, Pete! A farm!" she cooed, demonstrating by clumsily shoving a wooden cow into its cutout. A muffled, pathetic "Moo" bleated from the board. I stared at her, blinked slowly to convey my profound disappointment, and began fastidiously grooming a single stray fur on my shoulder. A box that makes noises. Groundbreaking. Later that evening, long after The Provider had retired to her sleeping slab, I decided to give the object a more thorough inspection. The house was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight in the hallway. I approached the puzzle, my paws silent on the hardwood floor. I nudged the horse peg with my nose. It smelled faintly of sawdust and desperation. It was then that I noticed it: a tiny, dark circle at the bottom of each empty space. A sensor. I recalled The Provider's fumbling earlier, how the sound only played when the peg was fully seated, blocking the light. My mind, a labyrinth of cunning and strategic genius, began to churn. This was no mere puzzle; it was a trap for light. A series of triggers I could manipulate. I began my experiment, not by placing the pegs, but by using my own magnificent form. I lowered my paw over the sheep's sensor, plunging it into shadow. *Baaa.* I lifted it. Silence. I danced a swift, four-tap rhythm over the chicken's sensor with a single claw. *Cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck.* It was a primitive musical instrument. I spent the next hour composing what I can only describe as "Ode to an Unfilled Food Bowl," a discordant symphony of oinks, quacks, and whinnies, punctuated by dramatic pauses created by draping my tail over the entire board. By dawn, I was exhausted but triumphant. The Provider found me curled asleep beside the puzzle, the duck peg strategically placed atop the pig's head. She chuckled, assuming I'd engaged in some simple-minded play. She could never comprehend the complex political statement I was making. The toy itself is a piece of juvenile rubbish, its sounds an insult to acoustics. But as a tool for nocturnal protest and avant-garde composition? It has earned a temporary stay of execution. It is not a toy for me, but rather, an instrument for my art.
