“Who’s Zoomin’ Who?” – the words to an Aretha Franklin hit. The “four asses” sang it in the car on the way home from the Four Aces Tavern, as it blasted from the radio. It was the early 80’s version of “Carpool Karaoke,” after a few too many beers and a couple shots of George Dickel – “Dickeled Pink.” was the phrase we once used for drunken behavior, like seeing Pink Elephants.

One of my wife’s business associates called for an Uber the other night. The car she rode in was equipped with disco lights and a karaoke machine. She had just sold her car and had reason to celebrate so she sang all the way home. It was the most fun she could ever imagine, but she probably wasn’t born yet when we invented the concept years ago. I may need to get the “four asses” back together for a Portland Uber ride.

Three of the “four asses” did reunite years later and dressed in pink for a Colts vs. Bronchos Monday Night Football game. This time, however, we hired a driver and played our “Who’s Zoomin’ Who” theme song from the limo’s cassette player. The song implied a intimate sexual encounter, with the associated sound of a zipper coming undone. “Get ready here it comes!” It was another “boys night out” so what better time to display immature, lewd behavior? I’m sure the limo driver could think of no other word than “asinine” to describe our alcohol-induced behavior. I hope we at least gave him a good tip. It’s embarrassing even now to actually document this man-child silliness.

My wife and I were out walking the dogs last weekend. Tinker, our elder schnauzer, is approaching 100 dog years. While she once used to easily leap up on our bed or bound up the stairs with enthusiasm, she now needs to be lifted. Lately, she begins to bark like a maniac when she can’t join us on the couch. When she gets our full attention, she’ll lift her front paw up like a dainty ballerina as the Tinker-vator carries her to new heights. I’m now the Tinker-vator, making sounds like an airplane ready to deliver a spoonful of oatmeal to an uncooperative child. We may soon need to get a dog stroller.

Every month or so we’ll take Tink to the vet for a cortisone injection. This not only helps soothe her constantly itchy skin, but also temporarily relieves her aching joints and tired, sore feet. It’s often a short-lived miracle, as the drug makes her feel like a puppy once again. Our younger schnauzer, Tally, will get her playmate back, and they’ll romp joyfully in circles, running wild with unbridled energy.

As we watch the furry whirlwind of joy, like two proud parents, I’ll smile and say, “she’s on drugs again.” “Yes, she has the Zoomies,” my wife always likes to report. The next day, however, Tinker is back to her slow-moving self, lagging behind her schnauzer sister. I feel sorry for her, but as we all know, “getting old is not for sissies.”

Although Tinker’s “Zoomies” are not at all like Aretha’s “Zoomin’,” I can’t help but think of the good old days. Like Tinker, my joints are stiff and sore while my gait is little more than an Arte Johnson shuffle these days. I will jog with Tally, often looping back to rejoin my wife and Tinker. Tally loses interest in going fast quickly, easily distracted by the sights and sounds of the park, so I’ll hand her back to my wife and continue my run. Every once in a while, Tinker will have another attack of the “Zoomies,” just as I get the sudden urge to do some “Zoomin’” Is it Saturday night yet?