I was kinda pissed, because I was walking in to catch the end of the Braves game, and after watching Brooks Conrad forget everything he had learned about fielding from his study of the Tom Emanski instructional tapes, I desperately wanted a big fat cocktail. But there was no ice. Just a bucket of room temperature water.
Tonight I get back, and was happy to find that indeed, the door was locked and the freezer door was closed. But then there's a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen floor. When I left, it was on the counter. Again, it had to be the cats.
Ice? Whiskey? I think my cats are closet drunks.
Next time I come back from a trip, I expect to find them sitting at the kitchen table knocking back a few cocktails and hosting a poker game with some escapees from the local animal shelter.
Hell, as long as they clean up and use their winnings to restock the bar, I'm okay with that.
Evidently, passed out after a 3-day bender.
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