Sammy and Tigra were almost the same size when we brought them home. 

One was a kitten with oversized ears and fierce little paws. The other, a wide-eyed pup with more fluff than coordination. They looked like siblings from different species—matching in energy, attitude, and complete disregard for personal space. 

From my lap, Wick watched it all. 

He didn’t move. Didn’t interfere. Just kept his place on the recliner, curled across my legs like royalty observing the peasants. 

The new recruits tumbled across the floor in a blur of fuzz and enthusiasm. Tigra pounced everything. Sammy barked at nothing. They chased each other in wild loops until they collapsed in a heap—legs tangled, heads resting on each other like they’d been doing this their whole lives. 

They weren’t just friends. 

They were best buddies. 

They shared toys, treats, naps—even the same bed, though Tigra routinely pushed Sammy off in his sleep with a single, well-timed stretch. 

He always came back. 

They were playmates, partners in crime, and—without meaning to be—healers. 

Wick never joined in. But he didn’t leave. He watched from my lap, the occasional slow blink his version of tolerance. Or, maybe… approval. 

Sometimes Tigra would try to get him to play—batting at his tail, or hopping onto the recliner like a dare. 

He’d stare at her like she was a mistake the universe made on purpose. 

But he never left. 

And that, from Wick, was love.