When Sammy barked too loud, Wick flicked an ear without even lifting his head. When Tigra knocked over a lamp mid-zoomie, he leapt out of the way. If I looked up, he’d already be staring at me with that familiar look that said, “These are your gremlins. I am merely surviving.”

 Still, he was part of it all. Tigra often settled beside him when she was worn out, tail brushing his ever-impeccable fur. Sammy learned to respect the sleek black cat—after a few memorable nose swats. Wick kept the chaos from tipping too far. He was the calm in the middle of their storm.

Three very different personalities.

Tigra—curious and poised.

Sammy—loyal and full of bounce.

Wick—wise, wicked, and always judging from above.

 They weren’t just pets. They were a system. A rhythm. A home.