Still, he cooperated because Wick is a professional. I got the costume on, arranged the feathers, and stepped back to admire my handsome little Thanksgiving turkey.
“Perfect!”
Wick stared into the camera with the patience of a cat counting down every second of our agreement.
Click. Click. Click.
“Just one more.”
His eyes narrowed.
I knew that look.
Five minutes were up.
The turkey costume came off, Wick collected his treats, and our annual contract was officially fulfilled.
Some families...
After eighteen years, Wick knows better than to panic when I walk toward him carrying a costume.
He knows the deal.
Five minutes. One good picture. Costume comes off. His job is done for another year.
This time, however, I held up a turkey costume.
Wick stared at it.
Then at me.
Then back at the turkey.
His expression clearly said, You have finally gone too far.
Five minutes of patience. Look at the camera. Try not to murder Mom with your eyes. Let her take entirely too many pictures while insisting, “Just one more, Wick.”
Then the costume comes off.
Job done. See you next year.
Considering I brought Wick home at Halloween and he’s now getting ready to turn eighteen, he’s had plenty of time to perfect the process.
At this point, I’m pretty sure he isn’t cooperating because he likes dressing up.
He’s just trained me to work faster.
After eighteen years, Wick is an expert at Halloween costumes.
He knows the routine.
I bring out a new costume. He gives me the look. I put it on him while he patiently tolerates my nonsense, and then the negotiations begin.
Wick learned a long time ago that there’s a reward for cooperation. All I need is one great picture.
That’s it.
Wick watched Tigra join the family and eventually accepted that she was staying. Then Quigley arrived, full of puppy enthusiasm and absolutely convinced that every swat from Wick was a declaration of love.
Wick has never bothered correcting him.
These days, he may be the senior member of the household, but he’s still Wick. He still has opinions. He still expects things done his way. He still reminds Tigra and Quigley exactly who was here first.
So this Halloween, we’ll celebrate the pumpkins...
Halloween has always been a little different in our house.
While everyone else is thinking about pumpkins, costumes, and things that go bump in the night, I’m thinking about Wick.
That’s when I brought him home.
Now, somehow, my handsome black cat is getting ready to turn eighteen.
Eighteen years of attitude. Eighteen years of supervising everything I do. Eighteen years of giving me that look whenever something fails to meet his standards.
The funny thing is, Shyla never seemed offended by Wick.
Confused sometimes? Absolutely.
There were moments she’d stop mid-step after one of his surprise tail swats, standing perfectly still while her brain recalculated the situation. You could almost see the thought process happening in real time:
Something touched me.
Again.
Meanwhile, Wick would be hanging halfway off the end table above her like a tiny furry gargoyle, completely fascinated by the fact that her tail existed.
Not...
Even Shyla became part of his nonsense sometimes.
He’d streak past her like a furry missile, skidding around corners while she stood there completely unmoved, as if she had already transcended earthly concerns. Old, blind, and spiritually above all of us.
Meanwhile, Wick was ricocheting off furniture like a pinball possessed by caffeine and bad intentions.
Looking back now, I think that phase felt so intense because kittens don’t become adults gradually.
They erupt into it.
All instinct. All...
His favorite game was psychological warfare.
He’d stare directly at an object while making eye contact with you. Not touching it. Just staring.
Waiting.
You’d say his name once.
Maybe twice.
And slowly—maintaining eye contact the entire time—his paw would rise into the air like a tiny villain in the final act of a movie.
Tap.
Whatever it was hit the floor.
Then he’d run.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he thought it was hilarious.
And somehow… it kind of was.
Infuriating, exhausting,...
Once Wick entered his demon-cat era, the house stopped functioning like a normal home and started operating like a hostage situation with occasional snack breaks.
Nothing belonged to us anymore.
Every object became either a target, a climbing structure, or a personal insult.
Curtains? Scaled like mountain faces.
Furniture? Launch platforms.
Any cup containing liquid? Illegal in Wick’s America.
He developed an obsession with sprinting through the house at full speed for absolutely no reason,...
And Wick?
The tiny monster had the audacity to look immediately horrified afterward.
That’s the part I remember most now.
Not the swelling. Not the antibiotics. Not trying to function one-handed while muttering threats about tiny furry demons.
It was his face afterward.
Because the second the adrenaline burned off, he realized what he’d done.
He kept his distance the rest of the night, watching me carefully instead of launching his usual ankle ambushes. No puffed-up attitude. No chaotic...
During peak demon-cat season, Wick finally escalated from household menace to actual biological weapon.
It happened fast.
One second I was trying to redirect him out of whatever chaos he’d committed himself to next, and the next he spun around entirely on instinct and bit down on my hand.
Not a warning nip.
Not a dramatic little “leave me alone” bite.
One of his fang teeth went halfway through my hand, right above the ring finger and pinky.
I remember staring at it in stunned silence for...
Poor Shyla handled it better than anyone.
She’d be slowly making her way through the room while Wick orbited around her like an unhinged storm cloud, overflowing with chaotic teenage energy and terrible ideas. Somehow she stayed steady through all of it, carrying herself with the exhausted patience of someone who had already lived long enough to know insanity eventually burns itself out.
Meanwhile, the rest of us were hanging on by a thread.
That month felt endless.
Then came the neutering...
He was a tiny furry supervillain fueled entirely by hormones and bad intentions.
This cat terrorized the house.
Not playfully.
Not “cute little troublemaker” terrorized.
I mean full commitment.
He launched himself at ankles from dark corners like a haunted land piranha. Attacked feet under blankets with military precision. Screamed at walls at three in the morning like he was arguing with ghosts only he could see. Nothing was safe. Nothing was peaceful. Every room became a potential ambush...
The thing about Wick is that for a while, he was perfect.
Sweet in that dangerous kitten way that tricks you into believing you’ve somehow been chosen by the universe. He followed people around, curled up wherever warmth existed, and looked at everyone with those huge innocent eyes that made every bad decision instantly forgivable.
For months, he was pure charm wrapped in fur.
And then he hit six months old.
That was the exact moment the tiny sweet kitten we knew apparently packed a bag,...
Looking back now, I don’t think Wick was just playing pranks. I think he was reaching. Not to annoy. Not to dominate, but to understand.
He was young—fast, sharp, built for reaction. Everything about him moved quickly, demanded response, chased stimulation, and then there was Shyla.
Slow. Quiet. Unshaken. A presence that didn’t react the way the world usually does.
She didn’t snap at him. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t pull away. She stayed, and in that stillness, she gave him something most don...
Wick was all momentum.
Everything about him crashed forward at full speed. Curiosity. Emotion. Instinct. Chaos. He experienced life like every single moment deserved immediate investigation, preferably with paws.
Shyla was the opposite.
Slow movements. Quiet reactions. Careful steps. She moved through the world gently, like she understood exactly how fragile time really was.
And somehow, instead of clashing, they balanced each other.
The tiny chaos goblin and the elderly blind dog.
One overflowing...
Shyla would find herself again—re-center, steady, and keep going.
Slow steps. Quiet confidence.
She moved through a world that offered her no visuals, only signals. Memory. Instinct.
Nothing rushed her. Nothing broke her rhythm.
Even when the world reached out and tapped her unexpectedly, she didn’t fall apart.
She adjusted. And kept going. Over time, something shifted.
Wick didn’t stop being Wick. He still carried that restless spark, that need to test, to reach, to interact in the only language...
Wick would stretch out across the edge of the couch like he owned the place—which, in his mind, he did—and wait. Patient in the way only a cat plotting nonsense can be. The moment Shyla passed by, slow and careful, counting steps instead of seeing them, his paw would flick out.
A quick swat to her tail. Not claws. Never claws. Just enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here.
Every time, her body would pause. A small hitch in her movement, like the world had shifted half an inch to the...
Long before Izzy ever taught me to listen, there was Shyla.
She didn’t come into the house the way most pets do—no excitement, no new-toy energy, no bright beginning. Timmie brought her home quietly. A white dog, older than any pet I had ever known, her body too thin, her eyes already gone to a world we couldn’t follow.
Sixteen years old.
She didn’t explore. Didn’t rush. She simply arrived… and stood there, mapping the room in a way that had nothing to do with sight.
Back then, Wick was...