A Ferrari in the Hallway: Tobby and the Evening Zoomies

Almost every evening, we have a visitor.

Nobody rings the bell. Nobody comes through the door. But I always know when it has arrived, because suddenly Tobby is no longer Tobby.

It’s as if someone has slipped quietly into his head, found a small hidden button somewhere behind his ears, and pressed it. And in that moment, my calm, dignified, seven-minute-walk hippo turns into something else entirely.

The zoomies have woken up.

Lift-off

It starts without any warning. One second he’s lying on his bed, chewing thoughtfully on nothing. The next, he’s up, and he’s gone.

He runs around the apartment like a creature possessed. Down the hallway, through the living room, past the kitchen, round again. His bottom is tucked down low, his legs are a blur, and his face, oh, his face. It is the most concentrated, the most serious, the most completely happy face you could ever see. As if he is on a very important mission that nobody else understands, and he is winning.

A young chocolate Labrador with his tongue out and tail up, ready for the evening zoomies

What you can do

Over the years I have learned exactly what to do when the zoomies arrive.

Nothing.

There is no point in following him. There is no point in calling his name. There is absolutely no point in trying to stop him; you would have more luck stopping the wind. The only sensible thing a human can do is get out of the way. Stand against the wall, lift your feet, hold your cup of tea a little higher, and enjoy the show.

The drift

And it is a show. The best part comes at the corners.

Tobby takes them at full speed, of course. He doesn’t believe in slowing down. And our floor is smooth. So when he tries to turn, his front paws grip, his back legs keep going, and for a glorious second the whole back half of him slides sideways across the floor. Exactly like a supercar drifting through a corner on a wet racetrack. Then the paws catch, he straightens out, and he roars off down the next straight as if he planned it that way all along.

Somewhere, a racing driver would be jealous.

If I had known

I have to be honest: if I had known, years ago, that we would one day share our home with a chocolate Ferrari, I would have chosen a very different floor. Something soft. Something with grip. Something a happy dog can’t skate on.

What saves us now is simple: our apartment isn’t very big. There are only so many straights and corners before he runs out of track. So the races are short. Two or three laps, a final drift past the sofa, and then, just as suddenly as it started, it’s over.

He stops. He looks around, slightly surprised, as if he’s not quite sure what just happened. Then he walks back to his bed, lies down with a satisfied sigh, and goes back to chewing on nothing.

The visitor has left. Until tomorrow evening.

Joy without a reason

I watch him sometimes after the zoomies, lying there with his tongue out, still a bit out of breath, and I feel almost envious.

Because there is no reason for it. Nothing happened. Nobody gave him a present or told him good news. Joy simply came up inside him, so big it had to get out through his legs. And he let it. He didn’t ask whether it was the right moment, or whether he looked silly, or what the neighbours would think. He just ran.

I’d like to remember how that feels.

on slippery floors, a few rugs or runners at the corners give paws something to grip, and keeping the hallway clear of things he could slide into makes the races safer for everyone.

When did you last feel joy with no reason at all, the kind that just had to come out? Tell me. Tobby says it’s allowed.

Would you like to share your answer?

I read every answer myself. It stays private unless you say otherwise.

If you are in crisis or thinking about harming yourself, please reach out to local emergency services or a crisis line in your country right now. You deserve immediate support.

With love, and a wet nose from Tobby

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