Here we observe Ada in her natural habitat: the exact center of the sofa, where she has arranged herself like a small, furry empress. Ada began life with two great talents: loving everyone and reacting to minor inconveniences as though civilization had collapsed. A closed door? Betrayal. An empty food bowl, despite dinner being three minutes away? Famine. A human leaving the room without permission? Tragedy in four acts. Yet Ada is an adventurer. She has bravely explored the mysterious lands beneath the bed, confronted the terrifying vacuum cleaner, and once followed a moth into the bathroom, where both parties forgot the original mission. Her preferred hunting technique is affection. She approaches silently, climbs onto a lap, and becomes impossibly heavy. Scientists call this “the Ada Effect.” Escape is unlikely. At night, she patrols the home, ensuring every shadow is properly suspicious. By morning, she returns for cuddles, exhausted by her own importance. And this is why Ada is the best: she turns ordinary days into epic dramas, then makes everything better simply by curling up beside you.