Last night, I brought home a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store for dinner.
As soon as I got in the door and the smell from that chicken started wafting through the house, the cats were on me like flies on sh*t.
My cats looooooooove chicken.
I actually hesitated to even buy the damn chicken, because I knew what was going to happen. Buy chicken, bring it home, have cats lose their ever-lovin' minds.
But *I* like chicken, too, and I was damned if I was going to deny myself over a little cat fuss. Because the LAST thing I want to do is end up like some of those people from My Cat From Hell, who have to, like, barricade themselves in their bedrooms if they want to sleep at night because they're afraid of what their cat might do to them. (Have you SEEN that episode where the couple had to take running leaps into their bed at night to keep little Fluffy from eviscerating them? I would PUNT that cat, is all I'm saying.)
So! Bring home chicken, cats lose their minds, time to cut up the chicken. With three cats variously climbing onto the kitchen counters ("HEY! GET DOWN FROM THERE!"), climbing up the cabinets ("DAMMIT! I SAID GET DOWN!" *swat*) and ululating like tribesmen ("Meeooooooooowww Yeeeowwwwwww Wowowowowwowwwwwwwww").
LOOK. I GAVE THEM SOME OF THE CHICKEN, OKAY? It's like a finely timed dance, with me parceling out little bits of chicken to the cats in order to buy myself enough time to get the damn thing cut up, wrapped up, and in the fridge. While saving aside some pieces for Wanders the foster, of course, who is currently residing in the spare bedroom so that she can't beat my three boys up, which is a whole nother story right there. Turns out, "She was being bullied in her other foster home", which is what I was TOLD, was ACTUALLY, "She tries to beat the sh*t out of any cat who comes anywhere near her", which, ha, live and learn.
And then there's that last mad dash at the end, where I have to buy off the cats with some last chicken pieces so I can get the chicken bones out back to the trash without the three yowling, chicken-crazed banshees following me out to the garbage can, where they would surely gladly shiv me to get to the last bits of meat.
Chicken. It's what's for dinner!