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 chances to flick his tail or stretch a paw into her way. And every time, she’d just keep moving—unruffled, unshaken, like a dignified old queen tolerating the antics of a mischievous court jester.

It was their rhythm: her calm dignity against his restless play. One keeping the peace, the other making sure the peace never got too quiet.

Rule Fourteen: A calm dog makes the best target. Swat often. Swat gently.

Rule Fifteen: If she ignores you, it only means she knows you’re not worth fussing over. Which makes winning even sweeter.