End game

Last weekend we went to Buffalo Wild Wings, my absolute favorite place in the world to eat (because I am classy). Jason suggested it, although I’m pretty sure my subtle “Y.M.C.A.” spoof – entitled “B.W.3.” – helped tip the scales in my buffalo-sauce-coated favor.

(For your information, the lyrics to “B.W.3.” go like this:)

Young man, there’s a place you can go.
I said, young man, when you’re short on your dough.
You can eat there, and I’m sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time.

It’s fun to eat at the B! W! 3!
It’s fun to eat at the B! W! 3!

(Note that each occurrence of “B! W! 3!” is accompanied by the appropriate hand gesture.)

Upon our arrival, in which I gleefully rubbed my hands together in anticipation of buffalo chips with cheese and spicy garlic wings, Jason cried out, “YES!”

And while I was enamored with the prospect of greasy, spicy poultry wings, Jason was enamored with this:

Vikings cheerleaders.

I wonder if they have a dance routine for “B.W.3.”? 

Sunny disposition

Yesterday when I got home, I found multiple tiny puddles of liquid on the floor. “Must be puke from Abby,” I thought as I quickly cleaned it up, mentally thanking my stars that all the spots were on the hardwood rather than the carpeting. I checked on Abby, petting her and soothing her while Sunny watched from the living room.

This morning, we fed the cats and gave Abby her cosequin chews to help with her joint stiffness (she’s no longer got a hitch in her step, thanks to them). Sunny lunged onto the counter as I was getting my vitamin, all clumsy paws, deficient vertical jumping skills and grunts, and begged for a treat.

I shook out two, and made her sit in a pathetic attempt to pretend I’m training her like a well-behaved circus animal, and put the treats in front of her. A few seconds later, I saw she was still sitting by the treats. Usually by this point, they’ve been inhaled and halfway digested.

As I stared at her in confusion, she abruptly stood up, ran downstairs and started wailing. And then promptly threw up.

She never throws up. Ever. (Abby more than makes up for this.)

But Sunny threw up 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 times, meowing miserably the whole time. As Jason comforted her and I cleaned up the tiny, frothy puddles spotted with cat food bits, I realized why we thought she was never the Puke Culprit.

She was attempting to clean up after herself by removing all of the evidence, if you know what I mean.

After I assured her that it was OK, I had it taken care of, she finally came upstairs to drink some water and then sat hunched over on the bath mat while I finished getting ready, a sad sack of potatoes made out of whiskers, orange fur and a perpetually wet nose known for burrowing into armpits at 3 a.m.

I hope she’s feeling better soon and back to her usual routine of hogging all the sun spots.

My name is Sunny, ergo I hang out in the sun. It is The Rule.

Hey, check out my impression of a coyote! A disgruntled coyote that someone foolishly awakened and must now dispense the price of ITS WRATH.