Even Shyla became part of his nonsense sometimes.

He’d streak past her like a furry missile, skidding around corners while she stood there completely unmoved, as if she had already transcended earthly concerns. Old, blind, and spiritually above all of us.

Meanwhile, Wick was ricocheting off furniture like a pinball possessed by caffeine and bad intentions.

Looking back now, I think that phase felt so intense because kittens don’t become adults gradually.

They erupt into it.

All instinct. All chaos. All feelings at maximum volume.

And Wick?

Wick erupted loud enough for the entire household to hear it.