Ben sat in his office, tapping away at his keyboard, a sound that usually means “do not disturb, the human is pretending to work.” My brother snored near the radiator and my sister was doing her usual morning routine: chasing invisible things only she could see. I’ve stopped asking questions. Whatever she’s fighting, she’s losing.
I was lounging, of course, deep in thought about breakfast number two, when it hit me… that strange, unstoppable feeling. That urge. My tail twitched. My ears perked. My paws vibrated with unspent energy. It was time. The sacred ritual was upon me.
I tried to ignore it. Truly, I did. But then my sister shot past me like a tiny rocket, ricocheted off the sofa, and disappeared down the hallway. Something inside me snapped.
“Fine,” I thought. “If she wants chaos, she’ll get chaos.”
And just like that — the zoomies began.
At first, it was simple. A graceful sprint across the living room. A casual vault over the rug. But then the speed built up. I was no longer running, I was flying. NASA should really consider hiring me. I darted under the table, bounced off the sofa for added flair and skidded into the hallway with what I can only describe as heroic momentum.
My sister reappeared beside me, eyes wide, pupils the size of dinner plates. We didn’t plan it, but we moved as one: a synchronized blur of fur, energy and bad decisions. Mostly bad decisions.
We looped around the living room twice, then thundered into Ben’s office.
Now, normally, Ben’s office is sacred territory - a land of wires, screens, and important human things. But during the zoomies, reason ceases to exist. Also, he really should label his cables. It’s like a spaghetti monster in there.
We stormed in like a pair of fluffy hurricanes. My sister leapt onto the desk, tail whipping across the monitor while I executed a perfectly timed parkour jump off the filing cabinet and landed on the keyboard.
Keys clattered, a loud beep echoed, and Ben spun in his chair just in time to see me sprint across his desk.
He gasped. “Mittens! What are you- wait- what- HOW?!”
“No time to explain, human. It’s zoom o’clock.”
I didn’t have time to explain. I was busy setting a new household land-speed record.
My sister followed, paws drumming across the desk as she launched herself onto the printer, accidentally pressing something. A paper shot out - she attacked it, obviously. Ben groaned into his hands.
“Great,” he muttered. “Now I have fifteen copies of… whatever this is.”
We zoomed out of the office, back into the hallway, tails streaming like victory flags. My brother, who up to this point had been firmly committed to sleeping through life, suddenly lifted his head.
He blinked at us.
We froze mid-run.
Then, in a shocking twist of fate, he joined in. I didn’t know he had a “fast” setting.
Granted, his version of “zoomies” was more of a lumbering gallop, but the spirit was there. The three of us thundered through the house like a very small, very disorganized cavalry unit.
Ben shouted something from his office, but it was too late momentum had taken control.
Next stop: the kitchen.
The floor tiles offered zero traction, which, in hindsight, only made things more exciting. My sister drifted around the corner like a professional racer, I followed with slightly more grace and significantly more panic. My brother, however, underestimated physics entirely.
He tried to make the turn. He did not make the turn.
The mop bucket, tragically located in his trajectory, went flying. Soapy water cascaded across the tiles in a dramatic splash worthy of an action movie.
My sister skidded through it like she was auditioning for a musical. I, of course, leapt clear with impeccable timing and…WHAM.
Correction: I attempted to leap clear. Instead, I hit the puddle, performed what I can only describe as a perfect pirouette of doom, and slid majestically into the kitchen cabinet headfirst.
The world went silent for a moment, save for the distant sound of my sister’s delighted squeak and my brother’s groan from the floor.
I peeled myself off the cabinet, shook off what remained of my dignity, and resumed running. Purely to maintain momentum, of course.
Ben appeared in the doorway, looking like a man who had aged ten years in ten minutes.
“Mittens,” he said slowly, “why?”
I paused mid-run, panting, and gave him my most innocent look.
“Why? For science, obviously.”
We weren’t done yet. Oh no.
We tore through every room like little tornadoes of fur and ambition. The rug was crooked, the curtains swayed dramatically and somewhere in the chaos, my brother found an abandoned toy mouse and carried it like a trophy.
Eventually, exhaustion began to win. We slowed, paws heavy, tongues dangling slightly (though I, of course, maintained an air of composure). My sister collapsed in a heap by the sofa, still grinning like a maniac. My brother flopped down beside her, purring like a small lawnmower. Together, we had achieved greatness and mild property damage.
I took my rightful place on the sofa, chest heaving, whiskers askew, and surveyed the battlefield.
Ben was muttering something about “damage control.” And yet… everything felt right.
For a long moment, we sat in peaceful silence, the kind that only follows glorious chaos.
I’ll admit it, there was a strange joy in it all. The speed, the noise, the sheer wild freedom of it. Even the part where my brother became a furry bowling ball had its charm.
I glanced at my siblings, one slightly unhinged, one half-asleep and felt an unexpected wave of fondness.
Maybe life isn’t just about naps and dignity. Maybe sometimes it’s about letting go, running wild, and seeing how much noise three kittens can make before the human gives up entirely.
Until next time, remember - sometimes the best adventures start when you stop worrying about your dignity and start running. Maybe you’ll even make it past the mop bucket.