For the first week, I couldn’t bond with Tigra. 

It wasn’t her fault. 

She was tiny and brave and full of life—but I was still wrapped in grief. Jinx had only just passed, and my heart hadn’t caught up. Wick stayed close, quiet and steady, curled on the recliner like a sentinel who knew I needed silence more than comfort. 

Then came Sammy. 

We brought him home just a week after Tigra—barely older than her by days. A brown and tan fluffball with more confidence than coordination. His legs were still wobbly, his ears too big for his face, and he barked like he was trying to prove he belonged here. 

Tigra took one look at him and decided he did. 

She followed him everywhere. Pounced him. Groomed his ears. Laid claim to his toys and then watched, smugly, as he chased after them. Sammy didn’t mind. He treated her like a littermate, a partner in crime, and occasionally, a chew toy. 

They were chaos.