Home is a treat

A dog holds the middle like a quiet guard, while a cat stretches across the top step, owning the sun. This isn’t waiting—it’s control.

We like to think the house is ours. But try stepping past them without acknowledgment. The pause, the glance, the bark—it’s a checkpoint. Entry isn’t assumed, it’s granted.

Inside, it’s even clearer. The biggest spot on the sofa? Already taken. “No, this is Fifi’s spot.” You adjust. Everyone does.

Because ownership here isn’t legal—it’s instinct. They don’t question it. They live it.