Timmie had found him on Craigslist, listed by a single family who couldn’t keep the litter. “He’s the runt,” they said, “but he’s bold.” And they were right. He weighed barely over a pound, but acted like he ran the entire household from the minute he walked through the door.

The Halloween decorations were already out. Paper bats danced in the kitchen window, and plastic pumpkins grinned from the porch. I remember setting Wick down on the couch and watching him waddle straight toward the jack-o’-lantern pillow. He flopped down like he’d claimed it. I should’ve known then—he wasn’t a guest. He was the new boss. 

That first night, he curled up under my chin and purred himself to sleep. Every time I moved, he’d shift closer. I barely slept—but I didn’t mind. He was warm, loving, and entirely fearless. By morning, he had claimed the bed, the window seat, and most of our hearts.

It didn’t take long for Wick to teach us all the rules. And rule one? The black cat always gets the final say.