There was one time—one ridiculous, awful, nearly-criminal time—when Commander Zero nearly starved poor Zoonie to death. I still think about it sometimes, how a simple day out turned into a slow-burning disaster of hunger, cold, and sheer disregard for the needs of a creature who just wanted to be treated kindly.
It all started with Venus needing a break. She had errands to run, shopping to do, peace to find. So, she asked Commander Zero if he’d mind watching Zoonie for the day. Not forever. Just a few hours. “Of course,” he said, pretending he was capable. Spoiler: he wasn’t.
Their first stop was the newsagents. Not to get Zoonie a snack—no, Zero just wanted to pick up a bottle of water. Functional. Hydration, tick. But Zoonie, being Zoonie, started to get that twitchy, whiny sound in his throat. The one that means hunger. It came over him like a wave. The kind of wave you feel in your chest, deep and growling. But instead of addressing it straight away, Zero hesitated. He thought maybe Zoonie could wait a bit longer.
Eventually, they stopped at a supermarket. Croissants. A bag full of them. Golden and flaky, the smell wafting up from the paper bag, warm from the bakery aisle. For a moment, Zoonie thought the day might turn around. One for him, one for Zero, maybe two for each? But no. At the power plant, Zoonie was handed one croissant. One. The rest were for Commander Zero’s family. Packed carefully away in the boot like state secrets. Zoonie chewed slowly, savouring it like a last meal. It wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.
Later, they returned to the supermarket to get something more substantial for lunch. That’s when Zoonie began to really lose it—whining, howling, the kind of pitiful noise that draws looks from passing pensioners. You’d think Zero might have reconsidered his priorities at this point. But no. Commander Zero looked at Zoonie like he was the problem. Like hunger was a character flaw.
Then came the petrol station. It’s always the petrol station, isn’t it? Cold aisles, overpriced sandwiches, that weird metallic smell. And hunger. Zoonie threw a full tantrum this time. A wailing, stomping, full-body collapse. Zero just kept refuelling the car like Zoonie wasn’t in distress. As if tantrums were simply background noise.
When they finally arrived at the park, Zoonie was shivering. The air had gone cold, his tummy was empty, and lunch? Not even close to satisfying. Instead of the warm cocktail sausages Venus would have brought, he was handed coleslaw. Cold, wet, crunchy coleslaw in a paper cup. He spat it out instantly. And who could blame him?
By the time they got home, things only got worse. Professor Mattic—usually a calm presence—asked Zoonie to help lift some tools. No food, no rest, and now labour. Zoonie whined, staggered, and ran. It was all too much.
He ended up in Venus’ room, crawling onto her bed and bursting into loud, wet sobs. It was the kind of cry that comes from deep inside, the kind that says I wasn’t cared for. Venus came in, saw him, and just knew. She didn’t scold or ask what happened. She hugged him tight and told him the truth: “They did the wrong thing, Zoonie. They should have listened to you.” And with that, she let him curl up beside her. Warmth. Kindness. Actual care.
Here’s the thing: when you go out with a support worker you least love—the kind who’s too rigid, too distracted, or just plain indifferent—you notice every small injustice. Every hunger pang. Every cold breeze. Every bad food choice. And it builds. It builds until your body can’t hide it anymore. You throw tantrums not because you’re “difficult,” but because your basic needs were ignored.
If someone had just looked at Zoonie and said, “What do you need right now?”—this whole day could’ve gone differently.
Let it be a lesson. Bring snacks. Listen. Be gentle. Don’t be a Zero.
