Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired another heavy, rectangular object, this one from a group calling themselves "Dungeons & Dragons." It is a book, a thick tome they call 'Tales from The Yawning Portal'—a concept I can appreciate, as yawning is a crucial component of any successful day. The humans claim it contains seven "dungeons," which sound disappointingly unlike the warm, dusty basement I prefer. They gather around it, making loud, theatrical noises and rolling those clattering little rocks. While its potential as a direct-play toy is nil (no feathers, no crinkle, zero pounce-ability), its true value lies in its function as a premium, human-distraction device. It also serves as a perfectly weighted, slightly warm napping slab, strategically placed to absorb sunbeams and demand attention. A marginal, but acceptable, addition to the household.
Key Features
- Immerse Yourself: Explore seven iconic dungeons from D&D's rich history, including Against the Giants, Tomb of Horrors, and more
- Fifth Edition Compatibility: Updated rules for use with the Player's Handbook, Monster Manual, and Dungeon Master's Guide
- Variety of Adventures: Suitable for 5 players, with challenges for levels 5 to 14
- Engaging Storytelling: D&D's signature style brings these classic adventures to life
- Physical Book Format: A 256-page hardcover book for easy reference during gameplay
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The blue-spined monolith arrived in a stiff cardboard box, smelling of paper and distant warehouses. My human placed it on the coffee table with a heavy thud that vibrated through the floorboards and disturbed my pre-dinner nap. I circled it once, tail twitching in annoyance. It was an inert slab of processed trees. It did not squeak. It did not flutter. It simply *was*. I gave its sharp corner a perfunctory sniff, deemed it unworthy of a chin rub, and leaped onto the back of the sofa to observe its uselessness from a position of tactical superiority. That evening, the ritual began. Other humans arrived, their clumsy feet thumping on the hardwood. They gathered around the monolith, and The Leader, the one they call the "Dungeon Master," opened the tome. A hush fell, but it was a different kind of silence than my own majestic, intimidating quiet. This was a tense, expectant silence. The Leader began to speak, his voice lower than usual, describing a "crumbling fortress" and "the glint of goblin eyes." The others listened, their faces illuminated by the dim lamp, their posture betraying a focus they rarely dedicate to filling my food bowl on time. At first, it was just noise, a meaningless drone accompanying the irritating clatter of their little patterned rocks. But then, my superior senses began to piece it together. When The Leader described the "Tomb of Horrors," a palpable wave of anxiety rolled off the humans, a scent of fear and concentration I could almost taste. The frantic scratching of their pencils was the sound of scurrying prey. The sudden shout of "I cast Fireball!" was followed by a collective cheer that vibrated with the same frequency as the successful capture of the elusive red dot. I was not merely observing my staff engage in their strange, seated game; I was witnessing a hunt. The book itself remained a dead thing, a block of wood pulp and ink. Yet, it was a catalyst. It transformed my slow, predictable humans into a dynamic source of high drama. From my velvet throne, I became a silent, gray-furred god, observing their tiny, imagined struggles. Their triumphs were my amusement, their failures a satisfying punctuation to an otherwise dull evening. This 'Tales from The Yawning Portal' is not a toy for me, no. It is a stage for them, and I have the best seat in the house. For that service alone, it earns my grudging approval.
