Pete's Expert Summary
Ah, yes. My human presented me with this box, clearly seeking my approval. It appears to be another one of their flat, intricate nesting projects. From what I can gather, this "Magic Puzzle Company" provides a thousand small, colorful squares of pressed paperboard for the humans to obsess over for days on end. The primary appeal for me, of course, would be the sheer quantity of lightweight, skitter-friendly pieces that would fit perfectly under the credenza. However, I must note the claim of "NO puzzle dust." This is a respectable feature; I have no time for the gritty residue of inferior entertainments sullying my pristine tuxedo fur. While the so-called "magic trick" at the end seems like a desperate gimmick to hold a human's attention, the promise of them being thoroughly occupied and leaving the best sunbeams to me is, I admit, quite appealing.
Key Features
- Big Rock City is a brand new 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle that does a magic trick when you finish it. It's MPC's first new puzzle since 2022!
- Beautiful, original artwork full of tiny details, including over 50 easter eggs to discover as you solve the puzzle
- Mind-blowing magical twist ending: we’re using ideas from visual illusions and magic to make this the most interesting puzzle you’ve ever solved
- Absolutely NO puzzle dust in the box!
- Includes TWO art posters, so multiple people can solve the puzzle together.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box landed on the dining table with a dull thud, an unwelcome monolith in my afternoon survey of the room. My human, with that hopeful glint in her eye that usually precedes a disappointing new flavor of dry food, tore away the plastic. A scent I knew well—that of paper, ink, and a faint, almost imperceptible hint of thwarted ambition—wafted out. She upended the container, and a thousand silent screams of color and chaos spilled across the polished wood. They called it "Big Rock City," a garish landscape of too much happening at once. It was an invasion. I did not deign to swat at the pieces as a lesser feline might. That is a game of chaos, and I am a creature of strategy. I observed from my perch on a dining chair as the humans began their strange ritual, matching edge to edge, mumbling about "sky pieces" and "looking for the thing with the octopus." For two days, I watched their slow, agonizing progress. They were building a world without my consent, on my table. This could not stand. On the third night, under the cover of darkness, I made my move. I selected my target: a piece with a distinctive curve, bearing the image of what looked like a tiny, smug-looking pigeon perched on a hot dog stand. It was clearly vital. I took it gently in my mouth—the clean, dust-free edges were a credit to the manufacturer—and spirited it away to my fortress beneath the guest room bed. The next day was glorious. There was confusion, then frustration, then outright accusation. "Did you see where it went?" "Are you sure it wasn't in the box?" Their project had stalled. I was the silent saboteur, the keeper of the pigeon, the master of their small, paper world. I napped soundly, dreaming of victory. They finally gave up, assembling what they could, leaving a glaring, pigeon-shaped hole in their cityscape. But then, the true nature of their foolish game was revealed. My human announced, "Time for the magic!" They slid entire sections of the completed puzzle apart and rearranged them, forming a completely new, even more chaotic scene. The hole—my trophy, the symbol of my dominance—was gone, absorbed into a new configuration where it was no longer needed. I emerged from my lair and dropped the pigeon piece onto the rug with a soft *plick*. It lay there, useless and ignored. They had not defeated me; the puzzle itself had. Its very design had anticipated and neutralized my superior tactics. I stared at the rearranged image, a chaotic jumble that now made a different kind of sense, and felt a flicker of something I could only describe as professional respect. A worthy adversary. It may be for humans, but it understands the art of the long game. I will allow it. For now.
