If I Die, It Was The Chicken

I'm getting close to writing the end of my fifth book, still untitled.  That deserves a reward.  At least, that's the excuse I stand by for buying fried chicken fingers at the deli this weekend.  I know they're bad for my stubborn cholesterol level, but if I eat cardboard the rest of the day, I should be okay.

In the spirit of healthy eating, I pulled off a large piece of deep-fried coating and offered it to Nikita.  This is the dog who thinks horse manure is the ultimate treat, so naturally I expected her to scarf it down and go wiggly with gratitude.  She cracked her eyelids, sniffed the offering, then turned and faced the other way. 

Crap.  I ate something even my dog wouldn't touch.  This can't be good.

Nikita, the Siberian husky, roughing it in the air conditioned house: