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The noise came again—this time followed by a soft grunt and the unmistakable sound of something stuck.

Wick rose with deliberate calm. His paws made no sound on the tile as he approached the cat door. The plastic flap bulged inward slightly, then froze. Two small, furry paws dangled from the outside edge, flailing weakly.

“Oh no,” Tigra whispered, bounding to his side. “Not again.”

Quigley trotted over and wagged his tail. “Friend?”

Wick stared at the struggling paws. “Not friend,” he...

It started, as most of Wick’s late-night adventures did, with a sound he didn’t like.

The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and Tigra’s faint purring from her spot on the back of the couch. The storm outside had finally passed, leaving the air heavy and damp. Wick sat by the kitchen door, watching the moonlight shimmer on wet leaves through the glass. It was his kingdom—patrolled nightly with the precision of a seasoned general.

Then came the scrape.

A faint, dragging...

Wick had claimed my favorite writing chair. He’d sit there for hours, regal and silent, watching me with the heavy-lidded gaze of someone who’d long ago seen everything worth seeing. If I dared reclaim the chair, he’d stretch, yawn, and settle deeper, tail curling neatly around him as if to say, I was here first.

One evening, I came home from the grocery store to find him sprawled across my laptop keyboard. The screen glowed with a single line: “sssssssssssss.” Maybe it was his critique—or...

Tiny, bright-eyed, and endlessly enthusiastic, the Shih Tzu bounded into the house like a puffball of pure optimism. The moment he saw Wick, his tail wagged so hard it nearly lifted him off the ground. Wick responded with a slow blink and one deliberate swat—no claws, just a statement. Quigley, of course, took it as love.

By lunchtime, the hierarchy was clear. Wick ruled the window, Tigra ruled the couch, Quigley followed Tigra everywhere, and I—apparently—worked for all three.

Quigley and...

It didn’t take long for Wick to make his priorities clear. The first morning, he perched himself in front of the window, tail twitching like a metronome, eyes locked on the front yard. Any squirrel that dared set paw on the grass got the look. He didn’t meow or hiss—he didn’t have to. His silence said everything. The yard was his kingdom now.

Wick was already a seasoned thirteen-year-old when Quigley came home—a calm, confident ruler of his domain. He had seen it all: dogs, storms, chaos,...

Halloween night always brought out the weirdness.

The porch still smelled faintly of pumpkin guts from the jack-o’-lanterns I’d carved earlier, their flickering faces glowing like little orange watchmen outside the window. The air was cool and crisp, and the last of the trick-or-treaters had long gone home. Inside, the house was dim and quiet—too quiet for Wick’s liking.

He sat by the kitchen door, the pale moonlight brushing over his sleek black fur like silver dust. The yard was still,...

Shyla never pushed back. She never barked at Wick or tried to claim the sofa for herself. She simply adjusted, sidestepping his stretched-out body with quiet grace. Sometimes she’d pause beside him, giving a soft sigh as if she knew the cat was up to no good but wasn’t about to waste her energy proving it.

Wick thrived on the game. To him, Shyla’s patience made the whole thing better. She was steady, predictable, always drifting through her well-worn paths like clockwork. That gave him endless...

Shyla was the elder of the bunch—a fifteen-year-old cockapoo with a white coat so soft it looked like spun sugar. Her eyes had clouded with blindness, but she still moved through the house with the slow, steady rhythm of a dog who’d seen it all. She had her favorite routes: from the kitchen to her water bowl, from the hall to her bed, from the sofa to the door.

Wick, naturally, decided to set up camp right in her way. He sprawled across the sofa seat like he was sunning himself on a throne,...

Izzy wasn’t content to stay in her glass castle. From the start, she wanted to be with us. She’d climb onto Timmie’s hand, scuttle up her arm, and settle herself high on a shoulder like a tiny, scaly parrot. Sometimes she’d crawl onto mine, her claws gently gripping fabric as she perched with all the dignity of royalty surveying her kingdom.

Stores became her favorite adventure. We’d tuck her under a light jacket or let her ride out in the open when the weather was warm. People would...

When we brought Izzy home, Timmie and I set her up in a converted gun cabinet. Glass front, shelves stripped out, the whole thing transformed into a terrarium fit for a queen. With her heat lamp blazing and little branches arranged just so, she had her throne.

Wick was the first to notice. He hopped up onto the back of the couch, eyes narrowing, tail flicking, ears pitched forward. To him, Izzy’s new glass castle was the greatest TV channel ever invented. She basked, she scrambled up her...

I was the one who saw Izzy first. She was tucked in the corner of the tank, the smallest of the bunch, looking like she had no business sharing space with the bigger, bulkier lizards. I nudged Timmie and whispered, “Hey, since you love dragons so much, maybe you need a bearded dragon.”

Timmie laughed, ready to brush it off. Then Izzy started moving. Not just a shuffle, but a full-on performance—head bobbing, arms lifting in slow circles, tiny claws spread wide. She waved at us like she’d...

By the end of the first week, Wick had claimed not just the bed, the window seat, and the jack-o’-lantern pillow—but the whole rhythm of the house. Mornings weren’t mornings without him standing proudly on my chest, tail flicking against my nose, demanding attention. Evenings weren’t complete without him draped dramatically across the back of the couch, surveying his kingdom with the confidence of a panther.

It was becoming clear: Wick hadn’t just moved in. He was training us.

Rule three? Food belongs to the cat first.

He learned quickly that counters were launching pads and that humans couldn’t resist a pair of wide, luminous eyes. He’d bat at cereal boxes, sniff every takeout container, and once managed to drag a whole dinner roll under the couch like a lion stashing prey. I had to laugh—even when I was on my knees fishing out the crumbs.

Rule two came fast. No door shall remain closed.

Wick was only a pound of fluff, but he treated every shut door like a personal insult. Bathroom? He’d paw at it until someone cracked it open. Bedroom? He’d wedge himself inside the moment the knob turned. Closet? Don’t even think about it. Privacy became a forgotten luxury. If Wick wasn’t allowed in, he’d sit outside and sing the song of his people until the guilty party relented.

Timmie had found him on Craigslist, listed by a single family who couldn’t keep the litter. “He’s the runt,” they said, “but he’s bold.” And they were right. He weighed barely over a pound, but acted like he ran the entire household from the minute he walked through the door.

The Halloween decorations were already out. Paper bats danced in the kitchen window, and plastic pumpkins grinned from the porch. I remember setting Wick down on the couch and watching him waddle straight toward the...

This year is flying by, and I can't help thinking about when we brought Wick home.

Almost fourteen years ago, it was a few days before Halloween when we brought Wick home. He was so tiny, he could curl up in just one hand. I remember cradling him against my chest, his whole body a warm, purring bundle of sleek black fur. His ears were too big for his head, his tail was a skinny whip, and his eyes—wide and unblinking—seemed to take in everything at once.

He wasn’t scared. That still baffles...

The backyard remained off-limits—too many hazards, too little supervision. But the front yard? That was their kingdom. Together, they ruled it with synchronized chaos and wagging tails.

Wick, of course, did not participate.

He observed from my lap like a disapproving old man who knew better than to get involved in juvenile nonsense. Occasionally, his tail flicked in judgment. Occasionally, his eyes narrowed. But most of the time, he just looked… resigned. These were his minions now. He...

When Sammy barked too loud, Wick flicked an ear without even lifting his head. When Tigra knocked over a lamp mid-zoomie, he leapt out of the way. If I looked up, he’d already be staring at me with that familiar look that said, “These are your gremlins. I am merely surviving.”

Still, he was part of it all. Tigra often settled beside him when she was worn out, tail brushing his ever-impeccable fur. Sammy learned to respect the sleek black cat—after a few memorable nose swats. Wick kept the...

They turned the patio into a personal obstacle course. Tigra launched herself onto benches and table tops with feline grace, while Sammy scrambled to keep up, his tiny paws thumping wildly as he zigzagged in pursuit. The patio table was their favorite battleground. Tigra claimed the top. Sammy circled below like a knight trying to figure out how to rescue (or maybe tackle) a very smug princess.

Tigra sunbathed like it was her full-time job, stretched out across warm concrete or curled into...

The cat door quickly became the most popular feature of the house.

Tigra darted through it like a furry little bullet, all legs and confidence. Sammy wasn’t far behind, yipping with excitement, his ears flapping like tiny flags as he barreled through after her. The two of them treated the door like it was the gateway to Narnia—or maybe just the front yard, which was almost the same thing in their eyes.