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 hadn't agreed to this arrangement, but he tolerated it—for my sake. 

I watched the three of them settle into this strange, joyful rhythm: the dog who thought he was a cat, the kitten who thought the world was hers, and the senior cat who thought we were all fools. 

And maybe we were. 

But we were happy fools. And that was enough.