Then one night, the weather turned brutal. Blizzard-level cold. I bundled up, carried Tigger back across the icy yard, and knocked on the neighbors’ door one last time. I handed him over and stomped home, seething. 

Less than an hour later? 

He. Was. Back. 

Cold. Shivering. Covered in snow like a sad little cinnamon roll. 

I looked at Timmie, my voice all frost and fury:

“They don’t deserve him. I’m keeping him.” 

And I did. 

Wick blinked once, slowly, then curled up beside Tigger on the rug like he’d just finalized a contract. 

That was the moment I realized something important:

Wick didn’t want to be an only cat. 

But he did have standards. 

Tigger was the first. 

And Wick made damn sure he wouldn’t be the last.