Midnight Zoomies Club

 3:00AM. The world is quiet. The moon is high. The humans are snoring like tranquilized hippos.

Suddenly — a sound.
THUMP. THUD. SKRRT-SKRRRT.

Spurka.

There she was, in full chaotic glory, eyes like two olives possessed, tail puffed to the size of a small raccoon, galloping down the hallway like her butt was on fire.

With a war cry ("MrrrAAOWWW!"), she launched herself into battle — against the hallway rug.

Yes. The hallway rug. The one that’s been peacefully lying there since 2019.

Clearly, it had wronged her.

She flung it into the air. Bit it. Kicked it. Rolled in it like it owed her fish money. I watched from the armchair, one eye open, deeply concerned... for the rug.

Then she turned to me, breathless, eyes gleaming, and said:

“You in?”

Of course I was in. I’m a sister, not a snitch.

I leapt down with all the grace of a nap-disturbed empress and joined the revolution. Together, we did laps. LAPS, I say! Living room to hallway, hallway to kitchen, kitchen to mysterious invisible corner where ghosts probably live, back to hallway. Full zoomie circuit.

Kitka watched us from the windowsill with the expression of a judgmental librarian who has seen too much.

3:12AM.
Mom appeared.

In a robe.
Hair sideways.
One sock.
Holding a slipper like she was going to smack a demon with it.

She stared at the rug — now folded like a burrito — and then at us. I froze. Spurka did one last defiant butt wiggle and belly-slid under the couch.

Mom sighed. The deep sigh of a woman who hasn’t slept since the 90s.
She said nothing. Just walked away, muttering something that sounded like, “They need jobs.”

3:17AM.
Spurka popped her head out from under the couch, eyes wild with pride.

“We meet again tomorrow night?” she whispered.

I licked my paw thoughtfully and replied,
“Only if there’s tuna at the afterparty.”

We are artists.
We are athletes.
We are The Midnight Zoomies Club.

And humans?
They just don’t get it.

Fluffily yours,
Gryzka – Zoomie Support Officer, Senior Division