March 25, 2008

White Dog and Steve were about to go look at the insulation work completed on the studio today when I stopped them. "Could you take the foil off of the chicken in the oven on your way out?" I asked. Steve grabbed an oven mitt and White Dog moved back to her "safe" spot in the kitchen doorway. There was a fireball flash, the smell of burned hair, and the sounds of both man and dog, startled. Steve was all right except for a lot of singed hair and pink coloring--thank goodness. The chicken was all right as well. The kitchen was filled with smoke and the screams of the smoke detector. White Dog scrunched behind my legs, shaking. It took awhile but the smoke cleared, we all calmed down, and at Steve's and White Dog's insistence, the chicken was eaten.