Where There's Smoke...

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Then there was the "great critter chase." It seems that we have a chipmunk condominium in our log pile, a fact which escaped my attention until I nearly set fire to one tiny tenant. I'd hauled in a stack of logs, prepared the kindling, and had positioned the logs. Kitty was unusually interested in the ritual of fire preparation. I pried his nose off the logs at least six times, each time warning him that he ran the risk of becoming fur-fry.

Suddenly, a tiny item detached itself from a log and Kitty bounded into the fireplace—both events occurring just as I fired up a match. I rocked back on my heels, match aloft as if I were welcoming ships into New York Harbor. The "item" shot out of the fireplace, ran across my leg, and headed for the dining room, followed closely by a frenzied and foaming Kitty.

"Out of the fire, into the frying pan," I muttered as I finally cornered the enraged rodent, scooped him up, and sent him back outside to the woodpile. Deprived of toasted chipmunk, Kitty sulked by the back door, little beady eyes boring holes in the woodpile, no doubt praying for another fireside visitor.

Nowadays, even in the doldrums of February when that fantasy fire crackles so nicely in my imagination, I stick to lighting candles. Oh, sometimes I'll go upstairs and plug in my hair dryer. That's been good for a burst of flames on at least two occasions. Friends have suggested that I get one of those gas log things where you turn on the gas, light a match, and—poof!—you have a tidy little fire. Uh huh. Picture it. I turn on the gas. I light a match. And—poof. My neighbors will get cable reception off my fillings each time I orbit overhead.

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