Pete's Expert Summary
My Staff, in their infinite capacity for acquiring flat, useless objects, have presented the latest contender for occupying the coffee table, a prime sunning spot. This thing, a "Photomosaic" puzzle by a company named for a large, lumbering beast, is apparently a picture of that squeaky-voiced mouse, but shattered into a thousand tiny rectangles of cardboard. The gimmick is that each tiny piece is itself a tiny picture. This seems needlessly complicated. For a human, this promises hours of frustrating, head-scratching "fun." For me, it promises a large, sturdy box for napping and a thousand potential skittering things to bat under the sofa, should I feel particularly generous with my time. The true appeal, however, is the long-term incapacitation of the Staff, freeing up more lap space and ensuring uninterrupted naps for yours truly.
Key Features
- Features thousands of miniature Disney movie frames
- Unique Photomosaic artwork from Robert Silvers
- A true collector's puzzle
- 100% made in the United States
- Bonus poster inside
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The invasion began on a Tuesday. The Staff returned from an outing not with the customary rustling bags of sustenance, but with a large, flat box. "Buffalo Games," it read. An adequate offering, I thought, as I have always found a sturdy cardboard box to be a structure of near-perfect architectural integrity. But my approval soured when they opened it and spilled its contents—a thousand shards of colorful failure—all over the low table in the living room. My table. They began their bizarre ritual, staring at the pieces, then at a poster, then back at the pieces, muttering about "edge pieces" and "that mouse's left ear." I watched from the arm of the sofa, a silent, gray-furred judge presiding over a trial of utter pointlessness. For days, the colorful blight grew, a creeping mosaic of nonsense. I would perform my customary patrols, tail held high, sniffing at the edges of their project with disdain. It was during one such inspection, as the afternoon sun cast a perfect golden rectangle across the chaos, that I saw it. Amidst a sea of red and black, one piece caught the light. I leaned closer, my whiskers twitching. It wasn't just a piece. It was a world. Deep within the glossy surface, captured in a miniature frame no bigger than my claw, was a perfect, tiny, orange-and-white striped fish. Nemo, the humans would have called him. I called him "Promise." This changed everything. The puzzle was no longer a pointless human endeavor; it was a treasure chest, and I had seen the jewel. That single piece, that miniature icon of aquatic perfection, became my obsession. It represented every can of tuna, every morsel of salmon, every delightful fishy treat I had ever known. It had to be mine. I watched the Staff, studying their clumsy hands as they neared the area. Their progress was agonizingly slow, but their fumbling approach toward my prize was inevitable. The moment came on a Saturday. The larger human placed the piece adjacent to my fish, then stood up to stretch, complaining of a sore back. The smaller one was distracted by a glowing rectangle in her palm. The treasure was unguarded. In a movement of liquid grace, I was on the table. A single, delicate tap with a curved paw was all it took. The piece didn't fly; it slid perfectly to the edge. I nudged it over, leapt down, and caught it gently in my mouth before it could make a sound on the hardwood floor. I carried my prize to my fortress beneath the credenza and deposited it safely behind a dust bunny. The puzzle would never be complete. They would search for days, blaming the "Buffalo" company for a missing piece. They would never know the truth. The puzzle itself was a bore, but as a vessel for the greatest heist of my career? I must admit, it was a masterpiece.
