Jack is throwing a freaking fit outside the office. He's meowing incessantly and angrily, scratching at the door, and at one point he hit his head against it. What crime have I committed?
I'm guilty of hiding chicken from him again. And boy, is he pissed.
Cats are carnivores, of course, but like us, they have their tastes. Jack likes fish and beef and has no problems with lamb, but GOD HELP US ALL he loves chicken. When we first got him, the people at PAWS told us they found him somewhere on ther West Side. In my opinion, they found him in an alley behind a Harold's Chicken Shack. The kid is chicken-crazy.
The first time Tori and I brought home a bucket from Harold's, you would have thought we had ten cats instead of two, given all the meowing Jack belted out. He kept jumping onto the coffee table, demanding we share RIGHT NOW. We'd spritz him with the water sprayer, but it was like poking a psychotic killer with styrofoam. We finally stuck him on the back porch so we could eat in peace, but the meowing wouldn't let up. When we finished our dinner, we gave him some meat to shut him up, and he chowed it down in three seconds flat before resuming his demands for chicken. Jack was insatiable.
Eating the leftover chicken was even worse - we actually had to barricade ourselves in our bedroom, furtively munching away for maybe fifteen seconds before the meowing, scratching, and bonking began. We thought the Nazis had found us - "Hühnchen raus! Hühnchen raus!" We haven't brought home fried chicken since.
Yesterday Tori and I were feeling lazy - neither of us wanted to cook - so we went to Dominicks and bought one of their baked chickens, plus some potato salad and cole slaw. Immediately upon coming home, we put a confused Jack on the porch ("What did I do now?" "Nothing, dammit, just enjoy the cool breeze.") and ate while fending off Mimi (who also loves chicken but is not as enthusiastic, plus she's slower and easier to scoot away). When we finished we gave them some scraps and put everything away.
Yes, I spoil the cats rotten, and now I'm paying for it. I'm in the office, finishing this post, wiping my hands. As I prepare to break out, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid-style, I'm hoping I can make it to the kitchen and put the rest of the chicken carcass away before I'm run down by Jack the Chicken Freak. In case I don't make it, tell Tori I love her.