With Sammy and Tigra in the house, the cat door never got a break. 

It became less of an entryway and more of a revolving door to chaos. Sammy figured it out first. He’d launch himself through it at full speed, ears flapping and tail spinning like a tiny propeller, bursting into the yard like he had urgent business to attend to. Moments later, Tigra would follow—silent, stealthy, and absolutely certain she was the one in charge. 

Sometimes they’d come racing back in with muddy paws and matching looks of mischief. 

Other times, one would go out… and forget what they were doing… and the other would go out just to bring them back. 

It was constant movement. Constant noise. Constant joy. 

Tigra claimed the windowsills and tree shadows. Sammy patrolled the fence line like he was part of the neighborhood watch. Together, they built a daily routine of patrol, pounce, snack, nap, repeat. 

Wick, naturally, remained above it all. 

He observed from the recliner, or the back of the couch, or—on bolder days—from just inside the doorway, where he could supervise the backyard without so much as a paw touching dirt. 

Sammy and Tigra didn’t need him to join in. 

But he was always included. 

Tigra would brush past him on her way out, just enough to ruffle his fur. Sammy would drop a leaf or stick at his feet like a gift—which Wick never accepted, but always allowed. 

They made the house feel full. Full of life, of noise, of fur tracked in and tiny paw prints across the floor. 

And for the first time in a long time… the emptiness was gone.