The horses gallop at precarious speeds after the clock strikes 10, as soon we might arrive to sleep.

Or, something like that … I ain’t all that well-versed in the elegant memes that pervade our social media.

Besides, our clocks no longer “strike 10.” That’s for church bells and sinister Victorian manors where evil lurks.

And, if we’re being totally honest, the four-legged creatures thundering through the house aren’t horses — but I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you knew that.

Keiko and Lexi have taken to the material change beneath their paws as though celebrating a gift from the gods. When the carpet went out, so too did the muffling of their nightly romps.

As they practice for running the Kentucky Derby, the sound they emit is that of a reverberating percussion ensemble — something akin to the drum solo in the middle of “Tusk” or the ominous background music of a cheesy jungle movie.

The new floors, you see, were supposed to be for our benefit. Easy to maintain, more pleasing aesthetically, and a far-sight better than the carpeting that was starting to show some wear and tear.

It had been quite an endeavor to have them installed — living without the stove for a few days, tiptoeing in and around the husband-and-wife team that was doing the actual work, and moving furniture and curios into the rooms that would remain carpeted.

One thing became immediately clear … we have accumulated a metric bleep-ton of curios.

When, we asked ourselves, had all these knickknacks, mementos, flotsam, jetsam, trinkets, bric-a-brac, baubles, objets d’art, tchotchkes and whatnots of questionable value become permanent fixtures?

And how, and wherefore, and for goodness sake why?

The cats, of course, love them, and were mighty suspicious when we packed them up in various boxes, grocery bags, satchels, plastic containers, receptacles and … well, I’m beginning to see how it is we wound up with so many doohickeys of questionable value.

The would-be horses were cooped up during the Great Flooring Evolution of 2024 — not in actual coops (that would be cruel … or so I was told), but corralled in our bedroom, which became the flashpoint for pent-up anxiety and whining over the desire to be set free.

The cats weren’t crazy about the temporary living arrangements, either.

Now, however, life has settled back into some sense of calm. The furry dynamic duo, literally, have the run of the house — which has taken on the acoustical properties of a echo chamber, just as we’re winding down for the evening.

We enjoy having the pitter-patter of little cat feet (yeah right, Sandburg) pounding out a backbeat to keep us from falling to sleep too soon.

Honest, believe me … because, if you do, then eventually I might believe me as well.

The furniture, meanwhile, is meandering its way back in place. It’s funny — not funny-ha-ha, though — how it took less than a day to move everything out of harm’s way; but at two weeks and counting, there’s just so much more to put back, so so so many thingamajigs of questionable value to unpack and return to shelves.

Normalcy shall return, even if now it comes accompanied by Mick Fleetwood’s drum kit.