Post poop Euphoria, and a trip to the ER.

 There is a moment—brief, holy, terrifying—when a cat finishes pooping and realizes the burden of mortality has been lifted.

The Ottoman Kid has reached that moment.

You can see it in her eyes first.
Wide. Shining. A little haunted.

Her body lifts off the floor by half an inch.

And then—

THE ZOOMIES BEGIN.

This is not running.
This is transcendence.

She rockets out of the litter box like she’s been fired from a cannon, leaving behind nothing but dust, a faint echo, and the unmistakable energy of someone who just fixed a major internal problem and now believes she is immortal.

She hits the hallway at full loaf velocity.

The rug is no longer a rug.
It is a launch ramp.

She bounces off the couch.
Careens off the wall.
Rebounds off the ottoman like a sentient beanbag with unresolved feelings.

Her back legs move faster than physics allows. Her front legs are mostly decorative at this point. Steering is theoretical.

Somewhere upstairs, the Moose Brigade pauses mid-stomp.

Downstairs, a neighbor sits straight up in bed and whispers,

“What the fuck was that?”

Captain Thunderpaws watches from the sidelines, clipboard out, nodding grimly.
Yes. Yes. Very good speed. Perhaps too much joy. But we’ll allow it.

The Ottoman Kid completes three laps of the apartment in under six seconds, screams once for emphasis—no reason, just vibes—and launches herself sideways into the wall with the confidence of someone who has never known consequences.

For one incandescent moment, she is free of:

• Gravity
• Responsibility
• Shame
• And the concept of corners

This is not chaos.
This is post-poop enlightenment.

She is the void.

A black hole in loaf form, with a small white bikini on her tum like a cosmic prank. The universe looked at her and said, “Let’s give the abyss a swimsuit.”

When she exits the litter box, it is not relief she experiences—it is cosmic release. Matter reorganizes. Time stutters. Somewhere, a star collapses out of respect.

Her pupils dilate until they consume her face.
Her body hums at a frequency only dogs and structural engineers can hear.

Then she launches.

Not runs.
Manifests velocity.

She slams into my leg at full Void Speed™, ricochets off like I was merely a suggestion, and leaves behind a mark that will, by morning, resemble yet another suspicious 5 inch long surgical scar I will not remember earning.

Someone at the ER will see it and ask,

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

And I will sigh, deeply, and say:

“It’s the cat.”

They will nod politely.
They will not believe me.

But I know the truth.

That scar, along with all of the others is a testament. A signature. A furry affidavit stating:

I was here.
You were in the way.
No regrets.

The Void completes her circuit—wall, couch, ottoman, ME again for emphasis—then vanishes into a shadow so deep it absorbs light and common sense.

Captain Thunderpaws observes silently. He does not intervene. You do not correct the void. You document it.

Downstairs, a neighbor clutches their leg in sympathy, unaware why. Upstairs, the Moose Brigade pauses, sensing a disturbance in the force.

And then—stillness.

The Void curls up.
Licks her bikini.
Sleeps like an angel who has committed war crimes.

I remain seated, leg throbbing, dignity compromised, wondering how many more bruises it will take before I start preemptively explaining myself to strangers.

But I will not move her.

You do not wake the void.