Left Overs. Right Under Here.

A mere twenty-four hours after most of us, clutching our aching and bloated bellies, swore upon the Ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, that we would never again be foolish enough to eat, what do we do?

We obey the faint whispers, which grew steadily louder throughout the day, from the gaping maw of the refrigerator: "Turkey with cranberry sauce, sour cream mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with candied pecans, stuffing and broccoli, slathered in cheese -- you will obey me." And what do we do? We obey. "Seconds?" Sure. Why not? What can it hurt? Oh, that. But dang it tastes good.

Even Charlie, staring at me plaintively when I wouldn't share anything off of my plate, had decided holiday leftovers were just what his stomach had ordered. So, off he headed into the kitchen and away from mean ol' unsharing UD, greedily smacking his lips in sync with dancing taste buds. There he sat, staring up at the counter top upon which the rest of the leftovers lurked. Taunting him. A bat of his eyelashes, but alas, the food did not fall. A hard stare and still, nothing. It was as though he thought dinner would suddenly sprout legs and traipse down the cupboard, directly into his belly. Actually, come to think of it, some of the leftovers did have legs. Wait a second...

Happy pugilism day, all.