By the end of the first week, Wick had claimed not just the bed, the window seat, and the jack-o’-lantern pillow—but the whole rhythm of the house. Mornings weren’t mornings without him standing proudly on my chest, tail flicking against my nose, demanding attention. Evenings weren’t complete without him draped dramatically across the back of the couch, surveying his kingdom with the confidence of a panther. 

It was becoming clear: Wick hadn’t just moved in. He was training us.