I knew something was wrong before the humans did.

My buddy Ace came home that day after a long hunting journey—I can’t remember the last time I’d seen him. He loved birds too much, and the outdoors was his stage, full of adventures. But the moment he stepped inside, I saw it: the world had turned upside down. His fur clung to his sides in dull clumps, like he hadn’t groomed in days. Even the sunlight through the window didn’t catch the usual shimmer in his coat. 

I padded over, sniffed him, and nudged him gently with my nose. “You don’t look well.” 

He blinked slow, like his eyes were too heavy to lift. When I nudged his paw, he didn’t move— just kept staring past me, as if the world was behind a fogged-up window. 

For a moment, I remembered a summer long ago. 

Back then, Ace was invincible. Fast, clever, full of that wild-cat magic. But his real strength wasn’t in his claws or how high he could leap. It was in his heart. 

Melissa had two guinea pigs in a little wooden pen outside. Most cats would see them as squeaky snacks. Not Ace. From the very beginning, he seemed to know: they’re family. He never touched them. Not even once. 

One afternoon, a strange cat from across the street slinked into the yard, eyes locked on the pen. I was about to bark when Ace stepped forward, calm and sure, and did something I’ll never forget —he gently placed a paw on the other cat’s shoulder and stared at him. 

Just stared. 

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a fight. It was a message: 

Not these ones. They’re mine.