Shyla was the elder of the bunch—a fifteen-year-old cockapoo with a white coat so soft it looked like spun sugar. Her eyes had clouded with blindness, but she still moved through the house with the slow, steady rhythm of a dog who’d seen it all. She had her favorite routes: from the kitchen to her water bowl, from the hall to her bed, from the sofa to the door. 

Wick, naturally, decided to set up camp right in her way. He sprawled across the sofa seat like he was sunning himself on a throne, paws dangling over the edge, tail stretched long and twitching. Whenever Shyla padded by, Wick would wait until the exact moment she passed and—swat! His tail would flick against her back or across her nose. 

Shyla would pause, ears twitching, head tilting slightly as if to ask, What was that? Then, with the kind of patience only the very old and very wise can muster, she’d continue on her way, unbothered. Wick would roll onto his back, paws in the air, smug as ever. It was his private joke, his little way of reminding everyone that he was in charge of the seating chart. 

Rule Twelve: The sofa is mine. Sit around me if you must. 

Rule Thirteen: If the dog dares pass, the tail speaks first.