Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe my sophisticated intellect would be stimulated by this... object. It is, from what I can observe, a large plastic grid designed for the lobbing of small, throwable sacks. They call it "Toss Across," a primitive game of X's and O's brought to life with noise and a distinct lack of dignity. The entire affair, with its focus on "rules" and "winning," seems a dreadful waste of energy that could be better spent admiring me. I will concede, however, that the bean bags themselves possess a certain rustic charm. They have a pleasing heft and look suspiciously like well-fed mice, making them prime candidates for being batted into the dark abyss under the furniture, a far more noble fate than being thrown at plastic.
Key Features
- We took classic Tic Tac Toe and added some action!
- Place the Toss Across unit on a floor, turn all targets blank side up, grab your three bean bags, and get ready to toss!
- Players try to get the rotating triangles to flip to show either X or O. Three in a row wins!
- Toss Across is lots of fun and even helps develop hand-eye coordination. Fun for children and the whole family.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived on a Tuesday, a day usually reserved for extended sun-puddle meditations. The humans hauled a large, colorful box into the living room and, with the sort of ceremonial gravity they usually reserve for carving the holiday turkey, assembled a plastic altar in the middle of the floor. It stood there, a grid of nine blank, silent faces, staring into the room with profound emptiness. I watched from my throne atop the bookcase, my tail twitching with mild irritation. This was my space, and this new idol of hollow plastic was an unwelcome intruder. Then came the offerings. Two sets of small, plump pillows, one a startling blood-red, the other the color of a summer sky. The taller human, the one who is slower with the distribution of treats, picked one up. He made a strange motion, a sort of windmilling of the arm, and sent the sky-colored pillow flying. It struck one of the blank faces with a hollow *thwack*. The face spun wildly for a moment before settling on a symbol: O. The human grunted in satisfaction. The other human responded, tossing a red pillow and flipping another face to an X. It was a cryptic conversation, a silent argument between void and slash. I descended from my perch, gliding silently across the rug. What did these symbols mean? O for "Outside"? X for "No"? Was this how they decided my fate? Whether the door to the patio would be opened or if the can of salmon would remain sealed? They continued their bizarre ritual, their grunts and cheers echoing in the room, completely oblivious to the existential drama I was experiencing. They were bartering with a plastic oracle, and I had to know its secrets. When a red pillow landed astray near the leg of the sofa, I saw my opportunity. This was no mere game piece; it was a syllable, a word in their strange, percussive language. I crept forward, snatched it in my teeth—it had a satisfying, dusty taste—and bolted. I didn't stop until I reached the laundry room, where I deposited the red X on the pile of warm towels in the basket. There. I had made my statement. I had cast my own vote in this strange congress. The humans could have their O's. My contribution was final: X. As in, "X-tremely soft and warm, right here, is where the focus should be." Let them decipher that.
