Speaking of licking, it turns out that water from one's waterbowl is never as sweet as water from people's glasses, from the edges of the shower recess, rasped off one's freshly showered person's shin, etc. It's only a matter of torso length before they're able to dangle by one toe off the rim of the loo and lap up delicious eau de toilet.
Other wisdom: lumps of fresh animal carcass are best carried off to a secret place for immediate and private consumption. Dry biscuity business, meanwhile, can be safely left in one's bowl and/or strewn across the kitchen floor for up to 12 hours.
Beatrice is not as good at Harriet at burying her poo. Harriet must help. This is possibly because Beatrice's mind is on loftier matters.
Harriet is bored by theology. On the other hand, she did put tooth-holes in the corner of Sigmund Freud's analysis of Dora, which for my money constitutes a serious critical engagement with the origins of psychoanalysis.
If these handsome beasts aren't destined to star in a Rolex advertisement, I will eat my camera.