The backyard belonged to Tigra. 

She roamed it like a panther with a mortgage—slipping through the cat door with silent purpose, lounging on benches, curling into flower pots she wasn’t supposed to fit in. The patio table was her throne. From there, she’d stretch luxuriously in a sunbeam, tail flicking, eyes half-lidded in feline bliss. 

Sammy, however, did not have backyard access. 

Not because he didn’t want it. He absolutely did. He’d press his little face to the glass with the desperation of a dog who believed every squirrel on earth needed to be personally escorted off the premises. But the backyard was Tigra’s private domain—and the fence was no match for Sammy’s ambition. 

So he ruled the front yard instead. 

Sammy took his job seriously. He patrolled the porch and walkway like a tiny security officer with a built-in siren. Leaves, blowing bags, delivery drivers—none of them went unannounced. Tigra often watched from the patio table in the backyard, completely unbothered by the chaos on the other side of the house. 

The front yard was where the real action happened. 

That’s where the chase games unfolded—Sammy dashing between flower beds, ears flapping, Tigra occasionally vaulting over the porch rail to join him. They’d wrestle in the grass, take turns jumping up on the front patio table, and collapse in a tangled heap beneath it when they wore each other out. 

Sammy barked. Tigra batted. Neither of them had any idea they weren’t the same species—or the same size. 

And watching them together? That’s when I started to believe healing could look like joy.