At some point, she decided to step up her efforts -- sort of like graduating from street stickups to armored-car heists. One day, I went to get my coat out of the closet -- the same closet where I keep her food. I grabbed my jacket, closed the door, and went out for a few hours. When I came back, I heard a muffled noise coming from said closet. It sounded garbled and tortured. I thought it might be an injured mouse. When I opened the door, there was the cat, her head buried in what was left of her food bag. She was moaning terribly and trying in vain to eat her way to the bottom. She must have spied a good hiding place when I grabbed my coat, and she went for it. At first, I was angered by her boldness. Then I was sort of amazed. How long had she been hatching that plan, I wondered? And was she working alone, or had she made accomplices out of Dog and Penguin (her two favorite stuffed animals)?
Her big score, though, came not long thereafter. What I'm about to tell you is a true story, however unbelievable it may sound. One night, after losing a protracted battle with a bottle of scotch (which isn't the unbelievable part), I woke up to a rustling noise coming from the kitchen. I thought it was a burglar -- a hungry one. I went to see what was happening, and as I turned the corner, I saw my cat lying on the floor struggling to breathe, her belly pooched out, bathed in the faint glow of the refrigerator's light. She had eaten the chicken I had grilled and saved for the week. All three large breasts. More impressive, though, was the fact that the chicken was encased in plastic wrap. She somehow managed to locate the chicken (her favorite), pull it out of the fridge, unwrap it from the plastic, and then gorge herself. She did this three times.
It looked like she was in a chicken coma.