Quigley barked once, tail wagging like a wind-up toy. “He’s visiting!” 

Wick sighed, long and deep, the kind of sigh reserved for saints and cat owners. He sat down, tail wrapping neatly around his paws, and stared at the intruder as if sheer judgment might make it leave. 

It didn’t. 

The raccoon wriggled and squeaked in frustration. The flap jiggled helplessly. Quigley jumped back with an excited bark, convinced the raccoon wanted to play. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Wick warned. 

But Quigley had already dashed forward, nose-first. Tigra tried to grab his tail, but he slipped free, yapping in delight. The raccoon let out a startled screech and pushed harder, wedging himself even tighter. 

For a long moment, the kitchen descended into pure chaos—Quigley barking, Tigra hissing orders, the raccoon squeaking indignantly, and Wick trying to pretend he didn’t live here.