My cat would eat anything. Anything.

I got her when I was living in my own little place for the first time, in a tiny, tiny bachelor suite not at all unlike Ronnie’s. My furniture consisted of a futon couch, which was also my bed, and… well, that was about it for a long time. At some point someone gave me a beat up old Lay-Z-Boy too.

Anyhow, since all I had was a futon, it was the only place to sit until I got a table, and since I was far too lazy to fold the thing up every morning I pretty much had every at-home meal in bed.

One day I made myself some ribs (following Alton Brown’s fabulous recipe, if I remember correctly), and I ended up having to lock the cat in the bathroom until I was finished eating since she wouldn’t stop climbing all over me to get at them. She later tipped over the garbage can and licked all the bones clean.

So yes, if she could have figured out a way to take down a full sized hog on her own, you’d better believe she would have done it.

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