Long before Izzy ever taught me to listen, there was Shyla. 

She didn’t come into the house the way most pets do—no excitement, no new-toy energy, no bright beginning. Timmie brought her home quietly. A white dog, older than any pet I had ever known, her body too thin, her eyes already gone to a world we couldn’t follow. 

Sixteen years old. 

She didn’t explore. Didn’t rush. She simply arrived… and stood there, mapping the room in a way that had nothing to do with sight. 

Back then, Wick was still just a kitten. All sharp edges and curiosity, full of that reckless confidence only the young carry. The world was something to test, to poke, to provoke. 

And Shyla? 

She was something new.