Animal House Review

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.

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. 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 trouble began with a squirrel

It started with a stray tabby, Barnaby, who found a broken latch on the basement window. He was followed by a one-eyed pug named Gus, who simply refused to leave the welcome mat. Then came the crow, a scruffy philosopher named Poe, who could work the kitchen faucet handle with his beak. One Tuesday, he managed to squeeze through a

The lamp shattered. The crash was loud enough to wake a real neighbor: Mrs. Gable from next door, a woman whose hobbies included knitting and filing noise complaints.