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.
From the kitchen upstairs, the toaster lever popped up on its own. Nobody had touched it.
Harold read it twice. Then he looked at the squirrel, who had placed the cherry on his own head like a tiny, ridiculous crown. Animal House
In the center of the room, on a low table, lay a document. Harold picked it up. It was a lease addendum, typed on an old Remington—the same model Harold himself used to write the original lease. It had been amended in careful, claw-typed letters.
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. Rent shall continue to be paid via automated
Barnaby immediately jumped into his lap. Gus rested a warm, wrinkled head on his shoe. Poe flew down and gently tugged at his cardigan sleeve, as if to say, You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you?
Not a human kingdom. An Animal House.
Then he heard it: a tiny click from the basement.
Signed, The Residents (Barnaby, Gus, Poe, Pixel, Margot, Chestnut) From the kitchen upstairs, the toaster lever popped
The squirrel nodded, dropped the cherry into Harold’s palm, and chittered something that sounded very much like, Deal.