Every now and then, my humans witness one of my finest administrative manoeuvres: I finish a respectable meal, wash precisely one paw for dramatic effect, stare briefly into the middle distance, and then sprint through the house as if the curtains have caught fire and I am the only qualified evacuation officer.

Naturally, my humans look concerned.

“Why is she running?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Did she see something?”

Yes. I saw destiny. And it required speed.

Let me explain, for the benefit of less experienced household staff. After a good meal, a cat may suddenly be overcome by what experts, servants and senior feline management call the zoomies. In my household, I prefer the official term: The Royal After-Dinner Gallop.

It is completely normal.

A fine meal provides energy. Energy must be distributed across the premises. The carpet must be tested. The hallway must be inspected at high velocity. The sofa must be approached, reconsidered and abandoned. A chair may need to be leapt over for reasons of national security.

This is not chaos. This is logistics.

The same can happen after a successful visit to the, shall we say, Porcelain-Free Executive Sand Office. My humans call it the litter tray, which is a dreadfully dull name for such an important department. I prefer The Gravel Throne, The Biscuit Crumble Bureau, or, in formal documents, The Department of Private Excavations.

And sometimes, after completing a particularly meaningful piece of paperwork in that department, a cat must leave the scene at once.

This, too, is normal.

Humans may describe it as “running away after doing a big poo”. I consider that phrase vulgar and insufficiently ceremonial. In this house we call it a Major Diplomatic Deposit, a Grand Pebble Declaration, or, when the windows are open, a Matter Requiring Immediate Ventilation.

Why the sprint afterwards? Several excellent reasons.

First, there is relief. The body says, “Well done, Your Majesty,” and the legs reply, “Shall we celebrate?” Naturally, one does not decline one’s own parade.

Second, there is instinct. In the wild, one does not linger near the evidence. One conducts one’s business, covers the paperwork and exits the meeting room with dignity and pace.

Third, there is household morale. My humans need entertainment. They pretend they do not, but I have seen them watching television for hours, so clearly their standards are flexible.

And finally, there is leadership. A sudden sprint reminds everyone that I am fit, alert and fully in charge of this indoor kingdom. Curtains, rugs, doorways and unsuspecting slippers must all understand the chain of command.

So when I rocket through the living room after supper or depart the Gravel Throne at a speed normally reserved for emergency vehicles, my humans should not panic. They should admire the technique.

No shouting. No fussing. No “What on earth are you doing?”

The correct response is quiet respect.

Perhaps applause, but tasteful.

Yours, Mrs. Cotton 🐱🐾