Flavorcat

"Burritos!" Flavorcat shouted as he bombed the hill from his house down to the tiny taco shack on the edge of the dried up creek. He'd been craving burritos for weeks.  Flavrocat had cruised in this morning on the last leg of his epic bike ride from San Francisco. He unloaded the touring bike and laid out his gear to dry. The front room looked like a backpack had exploded. There was a tent on the couch, a bivysack over the back of a chair, a sleeping bag hanging on the mantle above the fireplace, and stinky lycra and sweat-stiffened socks of an indeterminate color scattered everywhere. Flavorcat had showered and was ready for a meal. What he really wanted was a meal he didn't have to cook himself.  He jumped on his other bike and hit the street carefree and happy.  As he got closer to the taco stand he noticed something was maybe a little different about Izzie's. Not bad... just different. He couldn't quite put his paw on exactly was it wa