Okay. So here’s what happens when Mary Ellen goes to Florida. I’ve told you all this before, but it doesn’t hurt to refresh your memories from time to time.
When Mary Ellen leaves for weeks at a time to go to our place in Florida, I usually end up with a group of compadres at The Main Street Café in Willimantic for dinner and good times. You know the place, right Kristy??!!! It’s across the street in DOWNTOWN Willimantic from Hot Shots!
(For those of you who are unaware, Kristy is a blogging friend of mine from D.C. who flew with her husband to Boston last weekend, and then they came down to Willimantic to catch the world premiere of my play, Blessed Event! After the show, I met her and Ron at my all-time favorite watering hole, and she spent some time with me and the cast and crew of the show, eating GREAT pub food and drinking . . . Miller Lite!!!! What kind of a person drinks MILLER-FREAKING-LITE in a brew pub that brews its own incredible concoctions like Pony Expresso Porter and Certified Gold Lager???!!!!! Kind of like taking a knife to a gunfight, you know?)
However, there are a few nights when I am forced to eat at home by myself. Since I’m not a big fan of cooking, I have a tried-and-true game plan for such occasions.
Anyway, Mary left for Florida a week ago. So, I began to get a real desire for KFC. Now, I know the stuff isn’t good for me. I know that, OKAY? Because I’ve taken SO MUCH FLACK about it from well-intentioned friends, I fought the urge valiantly for as long as a could.
But good is temptation if you don’t give in to it?
SO, last Tuesday, I couldn’t stand it any longer. On the way home from work on that fateful afternoon, I pulled into the local KFC and bought a 16-piece bucket of chicken…extra crispy. (My plan was to eat a few pieces tonight, and then have a few more pieces for at least three more suppers! Smart, eh?)
I then quickly drove home with my sinful cargo. I ran into the house and put the bucket on the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen.
Now, as most you know, I have two German shepherds. One is a sweet old girl of about 9 years old. Her name is Dixie, and you’ve never met a more gentle soul in your life.
Then, there’s Fritz. Fritz is two years old. He tips the scales at a little over 100 pounds. He is the longest and the tallest German shepherd I’ve ever seen. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear a little Great Dane was slipped in there somewhere. Fritzy is lovable and doofus-y, but also a little precocious…to say the least.
I boiled up some cauliflower, (my all-time favorite veggie!), put three pieces of chicken on a plate, got a glass of water, and moved the whole dinner into the TV room where I had the tray set up in front of the flat screen. I then unpaused the DVR’ed episode of Shameless that was all queued up, and settled in for a night of exquisite victuals and high entertainment.
(I love SHAMELESS!!!! I was attracted to it at first because of William H. Macy, but the show is so well-written that, after one episode, I became hooked…and there is also the fact that I am now madly in love with Emmy Rossum!!!!)
Anyway, after about a half hour, I decided to get another piece of chicken. So I paused the show, walked into the kitchen, reached into the KFC bucket, which I had left on the butcher block, and . . . EMPTY!!!! My hand hit the bottom of the cardboard bucket! NADA!!!!!! I grabbed the bucket and peered into it. Sure as hell! Not even a crumb!!!!
“FFFFFRRRRRIIIIITTTTZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!”
That big freaking dog got into the chicken, and he ate thirteen pieces of the stuff!!!! I looked all over the house. There wasn’t a bone or a crumb anywhere!
He must have put his front paws up on the butcher block, delicately reached into bucket, (It wasn’t tipped over or disturbed in any way!), and gingerly pulled out each piece, one by one!!!! THIRTEEN FUCKING PIECES!!!!!!!!
I immediately began to worry about him because of the bones that he obviously devoured. I know that chicken and pork bones can be dangerous to dogs because they can splinter and perforate the animal’s intestines.
I watched him for the rest of the night. He seemed absolutely fine, except, for some reason or another, he had no appetite for his dog kibble. (Imagine that! If I just sat down and ate two full chickens, I don’t think I’d be very hungry either!)
After screaming “BAD DOG!!!!!” about a thousand times, I went back to watching Shameless, and Fritzy slinked off to his dog bed, stuffed to the eyeballs and drowsy with his full belly.
The next morning, I woke up before the sunrise, and came downstairs naked and in the dark, as is my custom. I let the dogs out, and then headed to the TV room to stoke the woodstove without turning a light on.
As I entered the TV room, I stepped onto the scatter rug in the doorway, and felt my left foot sink into something warm, spongy and wet. “What the…?”
Two seconds later, the aroma hit my nostrils, and all the wonder was gone out of the moment. DOG SHIT!!!!!
I immediately reached over and switched on the light. Sure as hell. Fritzy’s stolen banquet from the night before had caught up to him, and he couldn’t wait to be let outside for his morning constitutional. He deposited a steaming mountain of processed chicken on the TV room rug, and there it all was, squishing up between my toes!!!!
Cursing and swearing the whole time, I hopped on one foot to the downstairs bathroom, jumped into the bathtub and scoured my left foot, practically scraping all the skin off of it. I would have used a Brillo pad if I had one handy.
Woolite Carpet Stain Remover did the trick on the rug.
An aromatic candle worked overtime to dissipate the noxious odor.
And I learned a good lesson from the whole sequence of events.
KFC is bad for you for a number reasons, not just the high cholesterol content.
Anybody want a 100-pound, 2-year-old German Shepherd for free?