Casper set the kitchen on fire yesterday morning. The little fellow. He apparently was hungry and climbed up on the stove and in jumping down, hit the ignition knob. My husband called me about 9:00 yesterday morning and only said that when I left the house, I might want to put Casper in his kennel or in the bedroom with him.
We are so incredibly lucky. True, I'll be spending the day today on vacation scrubbing the walls and throwing things away. But it could have been so much worse. I've been touched by a couple fires in my life: when I was in 3rd grade, my family and I came home from a parade to see that our house had burned. Not to the ground but enough that it had to be gutted and re-built inside and the five of us lived in the basement for nearly a year. My first husband's family home did burn to the ground. Fortunately no one was injured.
So I asked my husband if any of the dogs barked Lassie-like to alert him to the fire. Apparently not. When he woke up (by the smell of the smoke), he said the dogs were huddled in the living room. Sleeping.
I am lucky. This could have been so much worse.
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