My Wife`s Cooking

We have a very sensitive smoke detector in our house. The smallest amount of unidentified goo on the burner, causing that thin ribbon of smoke on the outer ring to rise, seems to set it off from fifteen feet away in another room. That's fine I suppose, but it makes things difficult for a skittish Jack Russell with severe anxiety issues.

I should start off by saying that my wife is a fabulous cook and that she is more than competent when it comes to managing multiple items being cooked simultaneously on multiple burners. Occasionally though, something may not have been gotten to right away, and even when everything is being managed properly, a decent sized stir-fry will set off our paranoid alarm system.

The first time this happened the dog began to shake and cry while running around frantically looking for a place to hide. Neither of us could have predicted the place she eventually found. The only two adjoining rooms to the kitchen are the living room and the bathroom. Since the smoke alarm is in the former room, this was quickly ruled out as an option. Upon entering the bathroom Skippy discovered the perfect cover from her imminent doom: a large, rectangular bucket filled with kitty litter.

Where does one go to first in this situation. The alarm is blaring obnoxiously and in the opposite direction there is a sobbing Jack Russell trying to bury itself in four inches of dried corn cobs, or whatever that natural litter is made from. It's hard to think clearly with that incessant beeping, so first the alarm, then dog. Unfortunately, our Jack Russell, when confronted, instinctively roles onto its back in complete submission, causing her to be completely covered it litter. Just so everyone knows, this stuff doesn't fall out very easily, which means lots of fun. Oh and in case you forgot the cause of all this chaos: dinner is still burning.

I think Pavlov would have loved Skippy. It would be a good story if it ended here; but that would not be consistent with the nature of my dog. She has the ability to turn an amusing anecdote into something that makes you shake your head in disbelief because there is no way you could have imagined the extent to which she stretches the ridiculous: she makes a good story great. The scenario I have just described was not an isolated incident, but it was certainly not a regular occurrence. Apparently with Skippy once or twice is enough to form a habit, so that now when my wife pulls out a pot or pan and turns on the stove, Skippy shakes, whines, and makes for her sanctuary of dried cobs and congealed cat urine. Awesome.

What is up with my Jack Russell? Please... anyone?