Horgan brought home a new treat from the butcher shop last night. I was skeptical at first.

Wings are tasty enough–why mess with them?

But he insisted that we try “chicken wings” the “buffalo” way. Apparently bison like their chicken with hot sauce and butter, fried to a crispy oblivion, dipped in “blue” cheese (it wasn’t even blue).

I didn’t mind them. I’ll try anything with butter once. But the worst part, Journal, was watching Pfizz eat. He hopped up on the table, and grabbed drumstick after drumstick from the bucket to drop in his bowl. His paws and whiskers were coated in hot sauce, but he didn’t even try to lick them clean.  When he had taken all the drumsticks for himself, he knocked over the bottle of blue cheese (cheese? in a bottle?) and poured it in his bowl like milk. Then he buried his face in the mess and started gobbling.

He finished the entire bowl and was working his way through the bones when the hockey game ended and Horgan finally intervened. Then Pfizz burped like a tractor backfiring, curled up on the table, and fell asleep.

Just because we’re cats does not mean we can’t use napkins.

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