Jarvis is the elder statesman of the household — a tabby and white gentleman with the bearing of a country squire and the resting expression of a man who has just been mildly inconvenienced.
He arrives in rooms quietly, leaves silently, and in between he occupies whichever piece of soft furniture has most recently been cleaned. He is not enthusiastic, exactly — enthusiasm is for the young — but he is reliable, opinionated, and has a tail that speaks more than he does.
His preferred mode is recumbent. His default volume is silent, until you reach for the food cupboard, at which point he becomes, briefly, conversational.







“He is not a complicated cat. He simply requires everything to remain exactly as it is.”