Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my human has acquired another one of her "board games," a curious ritual where she and her associates stare intently at a colorful slab of cardboard for hours. This one, "Landmarks," seems to involve little wooden figures and tiles depicting famous human structures. From my perspective, the primary appeal lies not in the baffling "rules" or "strategy," but in the high-quality, robust box which promises to be a superior napping vessel. The small wooden meeples also show potential as prey, perfect for batting into the dark, forgotten lands beneath the sofa. The rest of it seems a colossal waste of energy that could be better spent grooming my impeccable tuxedo.
Key Features
- board games
- Family Games
- Robust construction
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The humans called themselves "explorers." I watched from my perch on the credenza as they unfurled their paper world, a patchwork of garish greens and blues. They laid out their little wooden pawns and cardboard squares, chattering about "points" and "placements." Fools. They saw a game of strategy; I saw a flawed historical document in desperate need of a curator. They had no sense of aesthetics, no appreciation for the proper flow of a landscape. My intervention was required. As the female human—my primary can-opener—reached for a tile depicting some ghastly, sprawling city, I made my move. I descended from my perch with the silent grace of falling ash, landing precisely in the center of their burgeoning "world." I did not scatter the pieces; that would be brutish. Instead, I simply sat, a majestic, gray-furred mountain where no mountain was intended to be. I began to groom a single, perfect white whisker, ignoring their pleas to "move, Pete." They did not understand. This region was now a protected national park, consecrated by my presence. Their clumsy attempts to continue the game around my domain were pitiful. One tried to place a token of a towering metal spike near my tail. A low, guttural growl from deep in my chest was all it took to communicate that this was sacred ground, and his gaudy monument was an affront to the natural order. He nervously placed it on the far side of the board instead. Another attempted to build a road leading to my left paw. A brief, deliberate extension of my claws into the cardboard put a swift end to that bit of urban sprawl. I was not merely an obstacle; I was a geological event, a living landmark they had failed to account for in their paltry rulebook. When they finally conceded defeat, packing their little world away, I remained. I had not merely won their game; I had corrected it. The final map, the one seared into their memory, was not the one they intended to create, but the one I had ordained. It was a world with a vast, silent, and exquisitely soft gray center from which all life and order flowed. Satisfied with my work as a cartographer and deity, I finally rose, stretched, and retired to the game's now-empty box. A creator's work is tiring, after all.
