The 3:00 AM Thunderpaws Grand Prix

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At approximately 3:00 AM, while I lay injured, upright, and clinging to consciousness in my big old recliner like a Victorian invalid, Captain Thunderpaws and the Ottoman Kid launched what can only be described as NASCAR: Feral Edition.


Captain Thunderpaws, AKA Fraser                                           The Ottoman Kid, AKA Elvira

No warning.
No warm-up laps.
Just full send.

They thundered through the house at speeds previously reserved for:

  • dropped pills

  • the sound of “what did you just swallow”

  • and the moment before something expensive breaks

And then — AND THEN — Captain Thunderpaws miscalculated physics.

Friends.
He CRASHED INTO THE BACK OF MY CHAIR.

Not a gentle bump.
Not a polite ricochet.

A full-body, Looney-Tunes-ass impact, like a furry cannonball launched by spite and leftover ham.

Did this stop them?

✨ Absolutely not. ✨

They kept racing.
For hours.

Back and forth.
Wall to wall.
Chair to chair.
Like two cryptids arguing about who owns the night shift.

I did not fall back asleep until after 5:00 AM, at which point my body gave up and said, “Fine. Let the cats have the house.”

So if I’m making fuzzy hats today with the focus and emotional stability of a haunted Victorian child, just know:

It’s not caffeine withdrawal.
It’s not injury.

It’s because I survived the 3 AM Thunderpaws Grand Prix, and I lived to stitch another day.

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