Pickles

He's gone without mention so far, but Anne's cat, Pickles, has now been residing with us in London for several months.

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Pickles, by the numbers, is 15 years old, weighs 20-odd pounds and is primarily composed of polka dots (belly), stripes (back) and a sense of entitlement (throughout).

Pickles lives off of extraordinarily expensive, Vet-recommended, scientifically-balanced packets of vaguely poultry-based food. He really likes it, and we like it too, as it makes his poop less smelly.

Pickles also likes to eat twelve to sixteen times a day. Like a dinosaur, his phenomenal mass is powered by a brain the size of a walnut. Every synapse in that walnut is powered by a primal urge to eat. So while he'll never be one of those TV-animals that taps out sums with his paws, he's displayed an awesome sense of cunning when it involves getting food out of his (erstwhile sleeping) owners.

Long past the stage of yowling and door-rattling, Pickles has defied a billion years of evolution and figured out how to use the floor lamp