I tend to see the funny side of life. I can find humor in situations where others don't see it. Everytime I tell my friend, Linda, about a funny incident she tells me I've got to write it down. I better start doing it, because the mind isn't what it used to be. This story is about a cat named Whiskey. He belonged to my daughter but lived with me at the time.
About 10 years ago, I lived in a mobile home park with Whiskey and my two dogs. One night I decided to sit down at the dining room table and pay some bills. To the right of where I sat, built into the wall, stood a buffet. At the top of the buffet, there were glass cabinets, below the glass cabinets; a mirror on the wall, below the mirror were wood cabinets. I lit a scented candle and placed it in the center of the table, poured a cup of tea and started writing. Pretty soon, Whiskey jumped up and plopped down on the table in front of me. It was a pleasant scene. I scratched Whiskey's head, he purred and I went back to writing.
After a while, I happened to look up to my right in the buffet mirror. I saw smoke billowing up in the living room. I jerked my head to the left but saw nothing. I jerked it straight ahead to check the candle. There lay Whiskey as contented as could be waving his smoking tail back and forth. The smoke made large squiggles up to the ceiling.
"Oh my God! Whiskey is on fire and this is a mobile home! It'll go up in flames in seconds!" I jumped up, grabbed Whiskey and started beating him to put out the fire. Of course, Whiskey had no idea why I had suddenly turned on him trying to beat him to death. He scratched my arm fiercely, and I had to let him go. Whiskey started running and I started chasing.
"He's going to set everything in the house on fire!" Whiskey ran into the bedroom and hid under the bed. I got down on the floor and began tugging on him. Although he sunk his nails into the carpet for dear life, I finally got him out, stood up and started beating him again. At that point, he scratched me up and down the other arm, escaped from my clutches and ran and hid again. I noticed I had a hand full of soot. Success! I had beaten the smoldering fire into submission.
Whiskey hid under the bed for a week before he decided to forgive me.
I wore the battle scars for many months.
I no longer light candles when a cat is in the house.
