When four tiny paws changed our studio forever

When we moved to our new ground-floor office in October 2023, we thought the biggest change would be trading our high-rise view for direct access to the beautiful garden in our new office building. We had no idea that our most meaningful transformation was still months away, hidden in the shadows of a cold December evening.

A cry in the dark

It was one of those bitter December nights when darkness falls early and the cold seems to seep through everything. We were wrapping up another day of design work when we heard it—a tiny, desperate meow echoing from somewhere outside.In our previous office, high up above the city, such sounds would have been impossible. But down here, connected to the earth and the ground-level life around us, we couldn't ignore that small voice calling for help.

We stepped outside and found her—a tiny kitten, alone and crying. But as we looked up toward the second floor of our compound's garden area, we heard another sound. Another kitten, just as small, just as desperate.

Catching that first little one wasn't easy. Trust doesn't come naturally to creatures who've learned that the world can be harsh. But patience—something we've learned plenty about in the design process—eventually won out. We managed to gently capture her and reunite her with her sister upstairs.

Building trust, one meal at a time

That's how our daily ritual began. Three times a day, we'd climb those stairs with cat food—yes, we already had some stashed away in the office for the neighborhood cats we'd been feeding. But what started out as a simple act of kindness quickly became something deeper

Turns out, those two were sisters…and to our surprise, they also had two brothers. . Four tiny lives that had somehow found their way to us, or perhaps we to them.

At first, they scattered at our approach. But day by day, meal by meal, something beautiful happened. Trust built slowly, the way the best creative relationships do. They began to recognize our footsteps, to wait for us, to even allow gentle touches. We quickly understood where the expression "like herding cats”comes from.

We took the same care into picking their names as we typically do branding our projects. Gazar—"carrot" in Armenian—for the female with her beautiful orange coloring. Siruk, meaning "lovable," because he was impossibly cute and won our hearts first. And Sevuk, the all-black brother whose sleek coat reminded us of midnight.

When life happens

A few months later, one of the The sisters simply vanished. We never knew what happened to her—sometimes life doesn't provide the closure we need. But then we noticed something that changed everything: Gazar was pregnant. The responsibility felt overwhelming and wonderful at the same time. Here was this cat who had learned to trust us, and now she was about to bring new life into the world. We watched her belly grow, prepared as best we could, and waited.

In her final week, Gazar made a decision that still moves us. She came downstairs to our office—not the garden, not some hidden corner, but our creative space—and chose it as the safest place to have her babies. Four kittens. Three ginger males who clearly took after their mama Gazar’s namesake: the Carrot, and one beautiful tabby female. Our office transformed into a feline maternity ward, and our design team became an extended family.

The heart of creativity

For three months, our work flow included feeding times and kitten watching. Client calls happened with the soft soundtrack of purring. Brainstorming sessions were occasionally interrupted by tiny paws exploring design materials.

It was chaotic. It was distracting. It was absolutely perfect.

We found loving homes for all four babies—a bittersweet process of knowing we'd given them the best possible start while saying goodbye to these little creatures who'd become part of our daily life.

Gazar stayed. We got her spayed and she officially became our first permanent studio resident. From scared kitten to confident office cat to devoted mother to beloved team member—her journey mirrors the creative process itself: patience, trust, unexpected developments, and ultimately, something beautiful.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Siruk and Sevuk continued their garden life, and we continued our daily visits. They were family now, even if they preferred their independence.

When love demands dverything

One day, I noticed Siruk was limping. After months of building relationships with these cats, seeing one in pain wasn't something we could ignore. The diagnosis was devastating: a badly broken hip that required surgery.

The financial commitment was significant. The emotional investment was even greater. We consulted multiple veterinarians, weighed our options, and made the decision that felt right: we would give Siruk every chance to heal.

The surgery was successful, but recovery took months. Months of careful monitoring, medication management, and helping a once-free spirit learn to trust the healing process.

The weight of freedom

But here's the thing about free spirits—they remain free spirits, even when love tries to protect them. Siruk healed beautifully from his surgery, but confining him indoors felt like trading one kind of suffering for another. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he paced, in his restless energy that no amount of indoor enrichment could satisfy.

From August to March, I kept him in the office for his safety, knowing full well that a cat recovering from hip surgery couldn't survive the dangers of street life. But compromise became our daily dance: twice a day, for one hour each time, I'd take him for walks. These weren't casual strolls—they were lifelines for a cat whose soul belonged outdoors.

Yet even this wasn't enough. Freedom isn't something you can ration in half-hour doses. The solution required research, planning, and a leap of faith that felt both logical and terrifying. I needed to find a way to give him back his independence while still protecting him. AirTags seemed like the obvious choice until I realized their limitations—in the garden areas where Siruk and Sevuk loved to roam, GPS signals faltered and locations disappeared.

So I dove deep into research and found radio frequency tags. Not as sleek as modern tech, but reliable in ways that mattered most for our specific situation. When the tag arrived, I made a decision that kept me awake at nights: I would let both Siruk and Sevuk have their days of freedom, but bring them back to the office each evening when the dangers multiplied.

Even this careful balance wasn't enough. Siruk's spirit chafed against any restrictions, no matter how lovingly imposed. Some creatures are simply meant to be wild, and love sometimes means accepting what you cannot change.

When love isn't enough

The system worked for four months. Each morning, I'd let Siruk and Sevuk explore their world. Each evening, I'd call them back to safety. But I could see the change in Siruk—the way his resistance grew stronger each day, the anger that flashed in his eyes when freedom's end approached. He was getting angrier every time I brought him back to the office, and I knew we were heading toward something I dreaded.

Then one day, he simply said no.

He decided not to come back.

What followed were the longest fifteen days of my life. Early mornings searching every corner of the neighborhood. Late nights calling his name into the darkness. I posted on every pet group in Yerevan, printed poster after poster, placed them on every corner, and asked every neighbor. The radio frequency tag that was supposed to give me peace of mind became useless—either out of range or, more likely, no longer attached to the cat I was desperately trying to find.

Siruk was gone.

The hardest part wasn't just losing him. It was the weight of feeling like I had failed. I had saved his life with surgery, nursed him through months of recovery, researched the best ways to keep him safe—and yet somehow, none of it had been enough. Love, it turns out, doesn't always protect the ones we care about, no matter how hard we try.

[To be continued...] Sometimes the most profound changes in our lives—and our businesses—come from the smallest, most unexpected sources. A tiny meow on a cold December night. Four frightened kittens learning to trust. The decision to open our hearts and our workspace to creatures who needed us as much as we, unknowingly, needed them.

At Concept Studio, we've always believed that the best creative work comes from authentic human connection. We just never expected some of our most important connections to have whiskers.

Stay tuned for the rest of Siruk's journey, and how our little pride of office cats continues to shape our studio culture...