When we brought Izzy home, Timmie and I set her up in a converted gun cabinet. Glass front, shelves stripped out, the whole thing transformed into a terrarium fit for a queen. With her heat lamp blazing and little branches arranged just so, she had her throne. 

Wick was the first to notice. He hopped up onto the back of the couch, eyes narrowing, tail flicking, ears pitched forward. To him, Izzy’s new glass castle was the greatest TV channel ever invented. She basked, she scrambled up her branch, she flicked her tongue at crickets—and Wick watched every second like a kid glued to Saturday morning cartoons. 

Sometimes he’d crouch low, pupils wide, tail twitching like he was about to pounce through the glass. Izzy, utterly unfazed, would tilt her head and stare back. Then she’d start doing her slow-motion pushups or wave her little arms like she was mocking him. Wick would freeze, ears pinned back, then sit upright as if to say, Fine. I wasn’t going to attack you anyway. 

It became a ritual. Morning tea for us, Wick perched on his couch-spot, both of us tuned into “The Izzy Channel.” 

Rule Eight: If it moves, it’s entertainment. If it waves, it’s a show. 

Rule Nine: Glass walls don’t make her prey—they make her royalty. Watch respectfully.