Then came The Lap Incident. 

Wick leapt gracefully onto my chair, aiming for his rightful throne—my lap. Only, surprise: Quigley was already there. Curled up. Snoring. Living his best life like he owned the place. 

Wick froze mid-step, his paw hovering over Quigley like he was contemplating murder—or at least a very pointed protest nap. The look he gave me was pure betrayal. “Explain this nonsense.” 

He didn’t jump down. No. That would’ve been too easy. 

He sat on the arm of the chair, turned his back to both of us, and sulked for a full fifteen minutes—tail twitching, ego bruised. Quigley? Never even woke up.