He is a small dog with a big ego.

She is a small cat with big plans.

He is a mama’s boy who doesn’t share. Not a cookie. Not a sun spot. Not one single resource. He keeps track of all that is “his.” He hoards rawhide chews under his blanket and stockpiles toys behind his pillow. He spends his days on edge, defending all that he has acquired and amassed.

She is a gypsy. Nomadic. With nothing to her name. After years of living with us, she still belongs to no one. She is aloof and independent. She makes her own rules. She wanders the house waging epic battles with fuzz on the floor. Batting rouge kibble under the refrigerator. Retreating to high up places. Remaining silent when we look for her. Judging our need to know her business.

These two rarely see eye to eye.

He doesn’t like that she sneaks up on him.

She doesn’t like that he is so loud.

He doesn’t like the way she eyes his tennis ball.

She doesn’t like that he only wants to HAVE the tennis ball, not test its velocity on hardwood, its trajectory down stairs.

What they do agree on, is the value of the soft, gray bed. What they do share, is a distrust for large, noisy vehicles.

So today, when the work trucks arrived at the school across the street, when finishing the addition to the science building was deemed “essential,” they forgot their differences and remembered that they were family.

She claimed the bed first and he did not argue.

His ears stood up straighter as the noise grew louder.

Her eyes became heavier as the sun grew warmer.

She sank lower into the bed as he strained closer to the danger.

He assigned himself the first watch and she trusted he had it covered.