Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a moment of questionable judgment typically reserved for buying kale, has procured a flat plank of wood with various carved lumps meant for a small, clumsy human. Apparently, when one removes these lumps, the board emits noises one typically hears around the house—a ringing telephone, a flushing commode, a whirring vacuum. Given it's a Melissa & Doug creation, it possesses a certain rustic sturdiness, a quality I appreciate in things I intend to push off tables. While the cacophony of domestic sounds might ultimately prove more irritating than engaging, the real intrigue lies in the small, peg-handled pieces. They look perfectly sized for batting under the sofa, a far more stimulating activity than solving a "puzzle" whose solution is literally printed underneath the pieces.
Key Features
- 8-piece wooden sound peg puzzle with realistic household sounds
- Sounds play when pieces are lifted, stop when they are replaced
- Lift a piece to reveal new picture of an activity happening in each room of the house
- Encourages motor and auditory processing skills, problem solving, and narrative thinking
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It began with a lie. I was performing my mid-morning sun-drenched sprawl on the living room rug, a study in gray and white perfection, when the distinct, shrill ring of a telephone pierced the quiet. I flicked an ear, then opened one eye. My human, deep in her glowing rectangle, didn’t move. A second ring, insistent and clear. I sat up, my tuxedo fur bristling slightly. Was she ignoring a caller? Unacceptable. My food delivery schedule depends on her prompt attention to such things. I trotted over to the hall table where the actual phone sat, silent as a stone. My head tilted. The sound had been real, I was sure of it. My investigation, conducted with the silent paws of a seasoned hunter, led me to a new and unwelcome addition to the floor-scape: a brightly colored wooden board. It was covered in cartoonish depictions of household scenes. My superior intellect immediately identified it as a rudimentary intelligence test for toddlers, but the source of the phantom ring was still a mystery. I sniffed its edge. It smelled faintly of wood and the clean, sterile scent of a product that has never known the indignity of being licked. Tentatively, I extended a single, perfect claw and hooked the little peg handle on the piece depicting a front door. As I lifted it, a cheerful *ding-dong* chimed through the room. My ears flattened. It was a trap. A box of lies. My initial disgust, however, soon curdled into a fascinated curiosity. I, Pete, was in control of this auditory mirage. I was a god of household noises. With a deliberate flick of my paw, I sent the doorbell piece skittering across the hardwood floor. Then I moved to the bathroom piece. A yank, and the sound of a flushing toilet echoed, despite the commode being rooms away and mercifully unused. I looked at my human. She glanced down, smiled patronizingly, and said, "Oh, you found the puzzle, Pete!" She did not understand. She saw a toy; I saw a tool for psychological manipulation. It is now my favorite instrument of chaos. When the dog is sleeping too soundly, I unleash the roar of the vacuum cleaner. When the human is on an important video call, I find that the incessant ringing of the toy telephone is a marvelous way to get her attention. The puzzle itself is an insult to my intelligence, but its components are divine. The little wooden pegs are a delight to bat into unreachable corners, and the board’s ability to conjure sounds from thin air provides me with endless opportunities for mischief. It is not a toy to be played with, but a system to be exploited. And I am its master. A most worthy acquisition.
