🎃 Don't Hand Me No Lines and Keep Your Hands to Yourself 🐿
where echoes of laughter mingle with sighs,
the frantic pace of paws against the floor
is mistaken for joy,
but in the flashes of fur
we find the pulse of desperation.
These zoomies, they say,
this wild, whirling symphony
of energy unleashed,
an innocent spree beneath the moon's watch,
a spirited frenzy that brings delight,
yet, beneath this playful facade,
lies a deeper truth,
churning like a storm in a restless sea.
What if it’s not just play?
What if it’s a long-held cry,
a yelp birthed from confinement,
the taste of freedom
as fleeting as the wind?
These bursts of life,
they are not just giggles
in a child's eyes
but the frantic dance
of a heart seeking its rhythm,
overwhelmed by invisible chains.
A memory of open fields,
grass beneath paws and toes,
the scent of wildflowers
and the hum of a thousand possibilities,
but here, in the confines of four walls,
they spiral, they twirl,
fueled by the urgency
of an instinct buried deep.
it is panic disguised as exuberance,
an instinct to flee,
to escape the confines
of their own anxious hearts.
Parents watch, amused,
while the truth takes refuge in the silence,
their laughter filling the gaps
between the yelps and barks,
unaware or perhaps unwilling
to see the forest beyond the trees.
In every spin, a story,
in every leap, a plea,
to understand the choice—
to retreat, to fight,
the primal dance of survival
thrumming in their veins,
yet we paint it over with smiling faces,
with simple words like "zoomies,"
rather than unearthing
the weight they bear.
What happens when the dance subsides,
when all that remains is a quiet room,
and the shadows stretch long and thin?
Do we listen to the heartbeats echoing
in the aftermath, do we address
the silence that envelopes,
or do we merely await the next burst,
the next frenzied dash,
as though life is a game,
and all is well in the world?
is a mirror reflecting wishes unmet,
the unspoken fears of parent and pet alike,
a collision of need and nurture,
wrestling with expectations
and the cacophony of what we call love.
Yet, beneath the cold and the dark,
the warmth awaits,
risen like morning mist,
if we dare to listen,
to explore the whirlpools of their heart
rather than simply catalog the energy,
to find the peace
in understanding and care,
and to reshape the dance,
a dance not of urgency,
but a sweet, slow glide toward connection.
