Flashback: Two nights ago, we had a delicious rotisserie chicken for dinner. After which, we threw the remains in the garbage.Fast forward to: Last night, I tied up said garbage and left it by the door to take out the following morning.
Fast forward to: This morning around 5:30am, my wife wakes, sits up and says, "Oh, Bean threw up on the bed!" I wake with these words, but upon further review (my wife in her blindness, poking at the mess) we discovered she hadn't thrown up at all. It was a chicken leg- mysteriously similar to one consumed two nights prior. I ambled down the hall, and my suspicions we confirmed: the little brat had chewed through the bottom of the garbage bag and removed an early morning snack for herself.
Flashback (presumed): Bean, sauntering down the hall in the early morning darkness, chicken bone in jowls, howling away- as she is want to do when she is holding things in her mouth.
This female feline of many nicknames (her real name is Josie, after all) has deservedly earned another: Princess Drumstick, as so dubbed by my wife.
This female feline of many nicknames (her real name is Josie, after all) has deservedly earned another: Princess Drumstick, as so dubbed by my wife.
The button to the story is that later I discovered that Mickey Mantle, the masculine feline presence in the house, had indeed thrown up in his room down the hall. Thanks for bringing it all home, Mick.
SAUSAGE!
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