Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a heavy, cold, metallic object from a brand called BePuzzled. It's a "Cylinder" puzzle from something called Hanayama, which apparently prides itself on making things difficult. The goal, as far as I can deduce from the human's furrowed brow and muttered curses, is to take it apart and then fail repeatedly to put it back together. For a creature of my refined sensibilities, it has no inherent playability—it doesn't crinkle, it's too heavy to properly bat under the sofa, and it certainly doesn't contain tuna. Its only potential lies in its satisfying density, which might produce a glorious clatter when pushed from a great height. Ultimately, it seems less like a toy and more like a tool for wasting valuable time that could be spent stroking my magnificent gray fur.
Key Features
- Hanayama's Cylinder brainteaser gives you no clues to the solution - and that's part of the fun
- After you separate the cast metal cylinder into its components, can you put it back together again?
- This 4.72" x 2.99" x 1.88" cast metal puzzle designed by Vesa Timonen is considered difficulty level 4 (challenging)
- Hanayama is known worldwide for challenging puzzles and quality manufacturing
- BePuzzled is more than just jigsaw puzzles - it's puzzle-plus
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object arrived in a box that held the false promise of a new nap spot. Instead, my human unveiled this... thing. It was a dense, metallic cylinder that felt cold and indifferent under my investigative paw. They placed it on the coffee table with a reverence usually reserved for my dinner bowl. They called it a "brainteaser." I called it an intruder. It sat there, smug and silent, a metallic usurper on what was clearly *my* strategic viewing platform. This would not stand. My first move was subtle. A casual stroll across the table, allowing my luxuriously soft tail to "accidentally" brush against it. I expected it to skitter away like a common bottle cap. It barely moved, emitting only a low, resonant *clunk*. I circled it, sniffing. It smelled of nothing but cold metal and the human's mounting frustration. They picked it up, twisting and turning it, their focus absolute. For a solid ten minutes, they did not look at me once. The cylinder was not just an object; it was a rival for my rightful attention. The next evening, the war of wits began. While the human was distracted by a glowing screen, I approached the cylinder again. I nudged it with my nose. Solid. I gave it a firm pat, my claws retracted out of professional courtesy. It rolled an inch, its internal mechanisms making a faint, intriguing rattle. This was its weakness. A voice. I batted it again, harder this time, sending it on a short, noisy journey across the wood. The human looked over, not at me, but at the puzzle, and said, "Ooh, maybe if I shake it..." They had misinterpreted my act of aggression as a helpful clue. The sheer foolishness of the species is sometimes staggering. After several days, I found the cylinder on the floor, separated into its two core pieces. The human had given up for the night. I stalked the defeated components, nudging the larger piece with my head. It rolled smoothly, a perfect, weighted toy. The smaller piece was an intricate little star-shaped thing, perfect for hooking a claw into and flinging into the abyss behind the entertainment center. I've decided the puzzle is worthy, but not in the way its creators intended. It is not a challenge to be solved, but a trophy to be won from a distracted primate. The human can have their moment of "solving" it; I have already claimed its deconstructed soul for my own chaotic purposes. It is, I admit, a quality item.
