They turned the patio into a personal obstacle course. Tigra launched herself onto benches and table tops with feline grace, while Sammy scrambled to keep up, his tiny paws thumping wildly as he zigzagged in pursuit. The patio table was their favorite battleground. Tigra claimed the top. Sammy circled below like a knight trying to figure out how to rescue (or maybe tackle) a very smug princess. 

Tigra sunbathed like it was her full-time job, stretched out across warm concrete or curled into patio chairs with a look that said, “I own this place.” Sammy would plop down beside her in the grass, panting and grinning, completely unaware that he wasn’t actually a cat. Or maybe he was. No one had told him otherwise.