An appealing smell wafted from the living room, but he couldn't quite place it. He had left a moose glass of egg nog sitting out, but the particular aroma was sweeter: a raw, robust sweetness that made his mouth water. He followed his nose and tripped over a string of lights that had fallen from their massive, but perfect, tree. He fell into the armchair and finally realized the source of the delicious aroma.
As Eddie had so eloquently said before, "Fried Pussycat".
Identifying the smell didn't ruin Clark's appetite. It was oddly increased. Maybe it was the cat food still stuck in his teeth. Maybe it was his rage over a cataclysmic X-mas.
Unfortunately, the cat wasn't much moister than the turkey. He devoured what was left, but it needed something to make it perfect. Something gooey and sweet. As he gnawed on the last charred paw, Clark wished he had some jelly.