Any old hoo, I had to take my cat to work on Friday. It’s a long story but suffice it to say that the little tyrant charmed everyone in my office and now no one will ever believe he’s really the evil genius that runs my house.

He’s a really good traveler. He stays pretty quiet and has never soiled his carrier. I decided when we were about a mile from home, turning from the busy highway into our suburban ‘hood, to open the top of the carrier and let him has a look around.

Big mistake.

At first he just poked his head up, all wide-eyed like, “No shit, I can really get out of the carrier.” Then, he was out of the carrier. And climbing into my lap. Then onto the steering wheel. Then onto the dash.

This was my view in the last 100 yards of my drive home. And yeah, I was taking a photo with my BlackBerry of the cat blocking my view of the road while my Volkswagen was still in motion. What? Doesn’t everybody?

So we successfully manage to get the Beetle into the garage without wrecking and I’m feeling pretty good about life. I wrangle the cat out of the car and into the house and I’m all excited to tell Hoylier all about it except he’s in our family room with the dogs.

And the family room looks like a crime scene. Blood all over the carpet.

One of our dogs ripped off a toenail. And in case you didn’t know, when a dog loses a toenail above the quick it spurts blood like fountain. Think of Dan Aykroyd’s Julia Child skit.

OK, so Hoylier shoos all the dogs outside and is obsessed with getting the injured pooch to come into the garage and away from the carpet with her bleeding toe. I start scrubbing the carpet with Resolve. Hoylier is losing his shit because these three dogs are not listening to a word he says, and I am surprisingly calm.

We are a good pair that way, when he’s in a hissy I’m pretty cool and when I’m losing it he is the model of calm. God help us if we ever both freak out at once.

Eventually he gives up this crazy, ring-around-the-house, catch-a-greyhound-by-the-bloody-toe notion and brings her back inside where we could clean and bandage her paw. Her toe stops bleeding. She’s a stoic trooper and we didn’t even have to make her wear the Cone of Shame.

Crisis averted, we decided we deserved desired will sacrifice and order Chinese take-out food. Because, damn. It’s been a crazy night, what with cats in the dashboard and dogs spouting blood. That’s what comfort food is for: Dealing with the crazy shit in life.

So I go to our favorite neighborhood place which happens to have THE BEST Asian food in our city and get our usual sack of deliciousness: an order of General’s chicken, and order of cashew chicken, pot stickers and edamame.

By the way, I do the fat girl math: One order of something as healthy as edamame totally balances the rest of the high-fat entrees. It’s a well-known equation.

I get home and spoon out my General’s chicken over my fried rice, being very careful to not take more than my share, and dig in. Pure ecstasy.  Minutes later I ask Hoylier to pass the cashew chicken.

Except he ate it all. All of it. Every nut, every chunk of celery, every morsel of tender chicken.

This? Is a MAJOR Chinese take-out foul. All entrees MUST be shared unless there is express agreement prior to the start of the dining experience. EVERYONE knows that, Hoylier.

I am still trying to decide on his penalty and will gladly hear suggestions.