Harold arrived at 9 PM with a spare key, a flashlight, and a deep sense of dread. He unlocked the door. The house was silent. Dust motes danced in the beam. He walked to the kitchen. No animals. No cake. Just a clean counter and a faint whiff of lemon polish.
He should have been angry. He should have evicted them. Instead, Harold Finch, who had lived alone for eleven years, who had no one to talk to but the mail slot, sat down on the basement sofa. Animal House
Not a human kingdom. An Animal House.
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? Harold arrived at 9 PM with a spare
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. Dust motes danced in the beam
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.
She called Harold Finch.