Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in her infinite and often misguided wisdom, has acquired what she calls a "puzzle." From my vantage point on the leather chair, it appears to be a box filled with a catastrophic mess. Specifically, one thousand tiny, flat, colorful squares that are supposed to form a picture of some loud, historical human city full of people in silly outfits. The primary appeal, from my perspective, is not the tedious task of arranging this chaos, but the chaos itself. A thousand small, lightweight objects are a thousand opportunities for batting, scattering, and strategic relocation under the sofa. The box they came in is, of course, a high-quality potential napping location, and the large, crinkly poster is a welcome addition to the list of things I can lie on to obstruct my human's activities. The puzzle itself is a waste of time, but its component parts show promise.
Key Features
- 1000 PIECE PUZZLE: This 1000-piece puzzle features Shakespeare's London in glorious detail.
- CAST OF CHARACTERS: Spot famous characters, fellow writers and historical characters as you build the puzzle.
- INCLUDES PULL-OUT POSTER: Includes educational poster with fun facts about Shakespeare and his works
- Piece together the world of Shakespeare in this art jigsaw puzzle depicting the London of his day.
- Spot a huge cast of contemporary extras as A Midsummer Night's Dream is rehearsed at the Globe and fellow actors wander the streets, along with local characters who may well have provided the Bard with inspiration.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The invasion began on a Tuesday. The Human returned from the wilds of the outside world bearing a large, rectangular monolith. She placed it upon the dining table—*my* auxiliary napping dais—and unsealed it with a grating rip. A thousand stiff, papery souls spilled out, a riot of muted colors and sharp corners. They were an army of fragments, and they stank of ink and ambition. She then unfurled a great sheet of paper, a map of the territory these invaders sought to claim, and I saw it was a place called "Shakespeare's London." I watched from the floor, a gray shadow of judgment, my tail a metronome of deep disapproval. This would not stand. That evening, after the Human had pieced together a pathetic border and then abandoned her campaign for a mug of foul-smelling herbal tea, I made my move. I leaped onto the table, a silent emperor surveying a fractured kingdom. My paws made no sound on the polished wood as I inspected the pieces. Tiny, two-dimensional serfs stared up at me from their cardboard prisons: a woman with a ruff, a man gesturing dramatically on a stage, a building called "The Globe." I lowered my nose to a piece depicting a fellow with a quill, presumably this "Shakespeare." He looked stressed. He probably needed a nap. Amateurs. My work was not to solve this mess, but to govern it. This was no mere puzzle; it was an administrative challenge. I was not a cat; I was a benevolent, if inscrutable, monarch. I identified a piece that was clearly out of line—a sliver of the River Thames—and with a delicate but firm tap of my paw, I banished it to the floor. Let the Human search for her waterway. I then selected a single character, a man in a feathered cap, and nudged him from the city center to the isolated wilderness of the table's far corner. A minor political exile. Over the next few days, I continued my reign. I would recline upon the Globe Theatre, absorbing its theatrical energy through my fur as I slept. I would carefully hook a claw into a piece of sky and hide it within the Human's slipper, a celestial omen for her to discover later. She would sigh, searching for the "missing" pieces, never understanding the grand, invisible drama she was a part of. This puzzle, I concluded, was not a toy. It was a stage, an ever-shifting political map upon which I could exercise my subtle and absolute power. It was, in its own way, a masterpiece of interactive art. A worthy tribute to my greatness.