Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought home a large, flat box from a company called "Hart Puzzles." Upon inspection, it appears to contain one thousand small, colorful pieces of pressed cardboard. The objective, for the biped, is to painstakingly assemble these bits into a single, static image of various newspaper comic characters, an activity they seem to find relaxing. From my perspective, its utility is far more dynamic. The box itself, proudly made by dedicated American craftsmen, promises to be a structurally sound napping location. The thousand pieces, however, are the real prize: a veritable treasure trove of lightweight, skittering objects perfect for batting across the hardwood floors and hiding under the sofa for later discovery. The humans' charitable mission is noted, but the true philanthropic act is providing me with such a versatile and disruptive plaything.
Key Features
- Premium Quality with Excellent Graphics & the Finest Artist.
- OUR MISSON is to preserve our National Parks, arts, education, medical research, animal shelters and veterans. When you purchase a Hart Puzzle, you become a piece in our cause to help. The list of charities we are supporting are included in the box.
- OUR GOAL - Tugging your Heartstrings.
- THE MAKERS In a small town just outside Indianapolis called Tipton is a company of dedicated craftsman, who are committed everyday to creating and manufacturing Hart Puzzles. We would like to proudly tip our hat to Tipton and the American Worker.
- 1000 Piece Puzzle.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The case landed on my desk—or rather, the dining room table that I graciously allow the humans to use—with a dull thud. The box art was a cacophony of color, a riot of so-called "Favorite Comics." I watched, feigning disinterest from my observation post on the credenza, as my human, the lead detective on this fool's errand, slit the seal and spilled the contents. A thousand victims, a thousand brightly-colored pieces of a shattered world, lay strewn across the polished wood. It was a mess. A beautiful, glorious mess. For the next several days, the human toiled. She would sit for hours, head bowed in concentration, trying to force order onto the chaos. She’d separate the edge pieces, a classic rookie move, then start assembling the frame. I observed her methods with a cynical eye. She was trying to solve the puzzle from the outside in, but she was missing the soul of the mystery. To truly understand the scene, you had to be in it. I made my move, leaping silently onto the table and weaving my way through the cardboard carnage. I was not "getting in the way," as I heard her mutter; I was conducting a forensic analysis, sniffing the evidence, feeling the clean-cut texture of the pieces under my paws. My investigation led me to a single, crucial piece. It was mostly blue, with a tiny fragment of a white speech bubble. A silent witness. I nudged it with my nose, separating it from the others. I could feel its importance. This piece held a secret the human would need, but not yet. I watched as she pieced together a large orange cat, a Viking, and some sort of lazy-looking army private. She was getting close, but her picture remained incomplete, a gash of empty space right in the center. The frustration was mounting; I could hear it in her sighs. On the third night, when the puzzle was nearly finished and her guard was down, I enacted my final judgment. The tableau was almost complete, a testament to pointless human perseverance. But it was *too* perfect, too ordered. It lacked the essential element of life: unpredictability. With a flick of my tail that was far too deliberate to be accidental, I sent the little blue witness skittering off the edge of the table. It disappeared into the dark abyss under the radiator. Let her search. The quality of these Hart pieces is commendable—sturdy, with a satisfying heft. They fly beautifully. But some mysteries are better left unsolved. This one, I’ve decided, is a masterpiece of incompleteness. And it’s all mine.