It didn’t take long for Wick to make his priorities clear. The first morning, he perched himself in front of the window, tail twitching like a metronome, eyes locked on the front yard. Any squirrel that dared set paw on the grass got the look. He didn’t meow or hiss—he didn’t have to. His silence said everything. The yard was his kingdom now. 

Wick was already a seasoned thirteen-year-old when Quigley came home—a calm, confident ruler of his domain. He had seen it all: dogs, storms, chaos, and the occasional ill-advised human furniture rearrangement. His patience had limits, but his authority never wavered. 

Tigra, on the other hand, was barely a year old. Her fur was a soft storm-gray, streaked with faint hints of orange that glimmered when the light hit just right. Her belly, pure white and impossibly soft, made her look almost angelic—right up until she decided to pounce on something that moved. Quick, curious, and mischievous, Tigra darted through life like she was late to every adventure. 

She adored Wick but respected him too much to push her luck. Their relationship was built on quiet understanding: he was the wise elder, and she was the spirited apprentice who hadn’t yet learned all the rules.