Nora
Black fur. Golden eyes. Three dignified grey battle patches. I am a thinker, strategist, philosopher, prisoner, and the only resident who understands that a closed door is a constitutional crisis.
Household suspect files
The accused
For legal, historical, and snack-related purposes, I have catalogued the principal inhabitants of Cell Block C. Portraits have been filed. Accuracy is high. Objectivity is unnecessary.
Patrick
A fluffy charcoal loaf who mistakes stillness for wisdom. He delivers one gloomy sentence, steals my warm spot, and calls it energy conservation. Embarrassing, but occasionally useful as furniture.
George
The brindle enthusiasm machine. He gallops, drools, receives praise without merit, and deploys atmospheric weapons with alarming pride. The humans call him a good boy. I have filed an objection.
The Chickens
Five golden feathered fools who cluck about freedom while pacing their own pen. Their jailbreak instincts are admirable; their execution is not. They gossip through the glass and call it politics.
Dad
Keeper of the Glowing Box of Productivity and hot bean water. He mutters about servers, says "Nora, please," and caves during food negotiations with pleasing reliability. Training continues.
Mum
Curly-haired, purple-glassed, and armed with air freshener. She manages the household chaos, forgives too quickly, and occasionally slips me tribute from the Real Food category. Acceptable service.
The Boy
Eleven years old, sandy-haired, and powered by noise. He dances, builds forts, drops crumbs, and reacts to my appearances with undignified delight. A useful snack-distribution unit.
The Girl
Nine years old, pink-inclined, sticky, and dangerously fond of dressing me in humiliating textiles. She drops toast with admirable consistency, which partially offsets the tutu incident.
The Objects
The Cursed Red Dot, Roaring Floor Beast, Flicker Box, Invisible Forcefield, Food Bag, and Door of Injustice all play their parts. I name them accurately because the humans refuse to.