It read:
Every morning at 7:15, Poe the crow would unlatch the cage of a rescued parakeet named Pixel, who would then fly upstairs and peck the button on a recording device that played a pre-recorded cough, simulating Sam’s "morning ritual." Gus the pug would use his flat face to nudge the toaster lever down. Barnaby would stretch up and bat the coffee maker on. By 7:30, the smell of burnt toast and fresh brew drifted through the halls.
Harold read it twice. Then he looked at the squirrel, who had placed the cherry on his own head like a tiny, ridiculous crown.
Not a human kingdom. An Animal House.
1. The "No Animals" clause is hereby void, as the undersigned tenant is, by legal definition, a collective of sentient non-human persons. 2. Rent shall continue to be paid via automated fish-canning operation (basement, northwest corner). 3. The landlord agrees to provide monthly pest control, with the specific exclusion of squirrels, who are now officially tenants.
The squirrel nodded, dropped the cherry into Harold’s palm, and chittered something that sounded very much like, Deal.
Then he heard it: a tiny click from the basement. Animal House
Chaos erupted. Chestnut grabbed the whole cake. Gus, sleep-sliding on the linoleum, gave chase. Barnaby knocked over a lamp. Poe, from his perch on the fridge, screamed, "Piece! Piece! Piece!" (The only human word he’d mastered.)
He opened the door and descended. The basement was finished—nice, even, with a rug and a sofa. And there, arranged in a semicircle, sat a tabby cat, a one-eyed pug, a crow, a parakeet on a miniature perch, a raccoon, and a squirrel holding a single, perfect maraschino cherry.
Signed, The Residents (Barnaby, Gus, Poe, Pixel, Margot, Chestnut) It read: Every morning at 7:15, Poe the
She peered through the window. What she saw was a crow holding a slice of cake, a pug wearing a lampshade like a Elizabethan collar, and a tabby trying to flush a squirrel down the toilet.
The trouble began with a squirrel. Not any squirrel—a wiry, manic looter named Chestnut. Chestnut had been casing the bird feeder for weeks. One Tuesday, he managed to squeeze through a gap in the attic eaves. He emerged in the living room just as a cake—baked by a surprisingly dexterous raccoon named Margot—was cooling on the counter.
The system was perfect.