The Cat as Fire Control Officer

This could be titled 50,000 Reasons to Keep a Home Fire Extinguisher Handy.

As most US citizens know, yesterday was Independence Day, Fourth of July, the day many otherwise level-headed individuals divest themselves of a good portion of their common sense and, at the peak of the dry tinderbox season of the year, decide to grab matches and incendiary devices, hie themselves out away from civilization, garden hoses and fire hydrants, drink alcohol and set off fireworks, legal or otherwise. The more sane individuals watch public shows manned by firefighters and proper permits.

We live in the middle of some of the hottest, driest California desert known to mankind. During the summer we're grateful when the evenings cool down under 100F. Out here, the burning bush is not necessarily a sign from God. It may well have spontaneously combusted all on its own.

Now, with all this fire hazard surrounding us, living next to a sage and mesquite filled field and having our front fence act as the tumbleweed catch-all for the entire desert, the advent of the Fourth sets my nerves on edge. Every time I hear the >snap< of a firecracker or the ear-piercing whine of a bottle rocket, my heart lodges a bit more tightly in my throat. I just know the whole shebang is going to go up in flames one of these years. To cap it all off, we live right next to a tavern, a nice neighborhood place that serves (*gasp*) alcohol, of all things. I know it does; I owned it for 20 years.

The Cat does not like fireworks. The Cat spent much of the evening alternating between clinging to my arms and legs, and leaping several feet off the ground, claws deployed, imploring me to make it all stop. Around 2AM, the noise dwindled away. I peeled her gently off my ankle and limped off to find the box of bandaids. The Cat, now a numb bundle of nerves, followed a few feet behind, muttering something about irresponsible people slaves.

We could both use a calming time-out. I decided on a cup of ginger tea, and The Cat contented herself with shredding a paper bag full of styrofoam bits while I put the kettle on to boil. While I waited, I settled into the recliner with A Respectable Trade by Philippa Gregory (she is rapidly becoming one of my all-time favorite authors), one ear tuned to the kitchen for the merry bleat of the teakettle.

I confess, I get immersed in my reading sometimes and the world fades away. Well, it faded away so well that I completely forgot about the teakettle until The Cat reminded me. I looked up from the engrossing book just in time to see her launch herself from the other recliner toward my lap, eyes wide. teeth bared, hissing. Oh SH*T.

We both tumbled out of the recliner and ran to the kitchen. I'd forgotten to put the little whistling lid thing onto the teakettle, and its contents had been reduced to a cloud of sickly looking steam and about 1/16th inch of water. A few pages more and I might have gotten a chance to test the ever-present but never-used home fire extinguisher on top of the fridge. It would have been ironic to have set the kitchen afire by my own inattention after hours of frantic concern over a handful of fireworks and tumbleweeds.

And once again I am grateful for the attentive presence of my owner, The Cat.