Fat Boy

I walked out into the living room and there in the middle of the room was the kitty litter box. That it was in the center of the room was strange enough, but the fact is we keep it under a counter in the kitchen (Yes I know, not very appetizing, but it's the best spot, close to the garbage can).  How the hell did it get there? The cats aren't strong enough, the only possibility was Chandler. Sure enough I found him cowering in my office, the look of shame on his face. He had apparently caught his dog collar on the lip of the cat box while partaking in that irresistible delicacy, cat poop encrusted with scoopable litter. I can only assume he tried to back out of the thing and dragged it all the way into the next room.

I’m fairly certain that if I left Chandler alone in a room with unlimited food, he’d eat until he exploded. Chandler eats everything. Everything except dog food designed for overweight dogs, which he will leave in the bowl until he feels he might starve to death, and then he’ll only eat it grudgingly. He'd rather eat the cat poop, or lizards, or even a stick he found out on the street.


Speaking of exploding, Mark must have noticed that I lost a few pounds while we were in Chicago. I opened the freezer and found a load of ice cream sandwiches and my favorite, Blue Bell pistachio and almond ice cream. On top of that he’s been whipping up some scrumptious dinners lately, and baking cakes and cookies. I don’t know if he’s trying to kill me with food, but it might have been a mistake to finally go over to the lawyers and sign that will. I should have put in a clause that cut him out if I died from too much cholesterol.