Chicken wings have played a very significant role in my life in the past couple of weeks.
Most recently, I ate too many of them at a Super Bowl viewing party at my neighbor's house. But is there really such a thing as too many chicken wings, you might be asking yourself. I fully agree.
In and of itself, this shouldn't have been a significant event. Many people eat chicken wings while watching the Super Bowl. However, the difference between many people and me is that I annoyingly talked it up for days beforehand. Whether it was to add to my always-open-invitation pity party ("It's the only thing I'm looking forward to in the next week!" I whined to Willie), or to have something to tell my co-workers about my exciting weekend plans ("Eating chicken wings!"), I wasn't messing around with the wings.
Five days pre-game, I began conducting research on where to get chicken wings in Durham. And then I put full responsibility onto Willie for my wing happiness. "You better make this happen," I threatened him. We both knew I wasn't kidding.
One day pre-game, we drove around to several potential chicken wings spots. A couple of them no longer existed. We finally took a gamble on a small shack with a hand written sign.
But once the order of wings had been placed, I transferred my wing anxiety to a new fear: Since there would be multiple people at the Super Bowl party, what measures were in place to ensure that I would get enough chicken wings? No, I'm not proud of this self-centered-particularly-when-it-comes-to-food trait, but, yes, it's real.
In the end, there were plenty of chicken wings, of course. (Turns out I had nothing to fear but greed itself.) And the wings were absolutely delicious -- everything I could have ever wanted in a deep-fried-and-smothered-in-tear-inducing-hot-sauce wing.
The Super Bowl wing event wasn't the only Festivus miracle this season, however. Just a week before the Super Bowl, Fonzie had his own memorable chicken wing experience.
It was an average Sunday afternoon, and I was leaving the house to go run an errand. Fonzie, who never tries to escape when the front door is opened, decided that this was his chance. Within seconds, he was a free naked dog, collar-less because I had been using the training collar, which I only put on when I take the dog out.
I grabbed the leash and some treats, and Willie got on his bike to help with the rescue effort. Fonzie seemed excited to be out and free, as he started making his way down the block, milling around in peoples' backyards, and darting off whenever I got close. The treats were no help, and without any collar with which to grab Fonzie, it didn't even matter how close you got.
After twenty-five minutes of playing chase on the block, the rescue effort was starting to feel futile and all too reminiscent of the night Fonzie got loose a little over a year ago. As he started running down a second block and a different street, the reality began to sink in: I was just going to have to wait for him to come home on his own, and that wasn't going to be a fun waiting period.
I watched Fonzie dart in front of a car and felt my stomach drop. Just then, a car approaching me slowed down, and the woman in the passenger seat rolled down her window. This was so not the time to give anyone directions! But as the car came to a stop, the woman stuck her arm out of the window to offer me a half-eaten plate of chicken wings.
"Here, use these to try to get your dog back. Your dog is probably headed down there where there are lots of dogs," she said as she pointed in the direction Fonzie was running. "That's where our dog goes when he gets loose. In fact, why don't you get in the car and we'll take you there."
Unsure of whether or not I was having an out-of-body experience, I got in the back seat of the car. The woman's husband drove us the two blocks to a dead-end, run-down block.
Chicken wing plate in hand, I thanked the couple profusely and got out of the car. There were several little puppies running wild and a few bigger dogs chained up, and there was Fonize. Without strategizing, I held the first wing out to Fonize. He grabbed it and ran away behind one of the houses.
I followed him behind the house, and for the second wing, I wised up. I held out his collar -- a loose and fairly wide fastened circle -- and held the chicken wing to the side of it, so that Fonzie would have to put his head through the collar to get the chicken wing. In pursuit of the wing, he stuck his head through the loop, and snap, he was back in his collar.
"Got him!" I shouted to Willie, who had followed on his bike. Thirty-five minutes after the adventure began, it was over.
I was unbelievably relieved, pissed at Fonzie, and awe-inspired by these angels disguised as chicken wing people who had helped me get my dog back.
Luckily the couple had pointed out where they lived, so I was able to thank them with a plate of brownies the following week -- a drop in the bucket of how much gratitude I felt for them. They had reaffirmed my faith that people were nice and good and helpful, and they had confirmed something else I had suspected all along: chicken wings really are the answer.