Hot Dog!

When the Fire Safety lessons were being taught in school, it seems as though all of the Clinton family members were at home with diarrhea (or firearrhea, as Mark suggests from behind me).  

Why, you ask?

Well, picture this:  It's a cosy Sunday afternoon.  We are kicking back in the living room with the fireplace on (meaning the light switch is up and very little heat is actually being produced).  As I get ready to leave for work, I notice a rather odd smell in the air.  I ask Mark if something is burning.  From his napping position on the couch, he answers with some sort of grunt.  I use my smelling skills to sniff around the room and pause at the outlet.  I ask him if he thinks the plugs are burning.  He tells me just to unplug the lamp (which seems to be a rather inadequate course of action if your outlet is spontaneously catching fire).  I unplug them and sniff the plugs... nothing.  I tell him that I think the smell is actually getting stronger.  Then I look over toward the pathetic fireplace.  Resting against the glass is the giant (synthetic) stuffed dog we keep in our living room for protection should anyone ever break into our house trying to steal a bunch of cheap, dirty, broken merchandise.  

[As an aside... the true origin of the dog dates back to our college days when Mark and I would frequent the local Dave and Busters and squander our money in search of the dream of winning at ridiculous light games.  It turns out we have a knack for this kind of thing and the fruits of our labor (or gaming) were several giant stuffed dogs that we carried proudly through the streets of downtown Chicago.  Due to space restrictions, we had to sell several of our friends but stubbornly retained the biggest one of all.  He used to sit in the kids' room, but one night as Mark was walking up the stairs at night, I launched the dog over at him as a demented sort of prank.  Since that day, he has proudly inhabited our living room (which is an interior decorator's worst nightmare).]

Back to my story...  There against the glass, melting and threatening to burst into flames, was the giant dog.  I picked him up and saw that he had a giant burnt spot on his head that was still smoking.  I threw him out the front door in the snow and left him there for hours.  I was planning on taking him out to the garbage until I got home from work, and he looked up at me with his sad, abandoned eyes.  I felt the memories of walking with him through the streets of Chicago come rushing back.  I leaned down to gather him in my arms and silently we walked back into the house, where I gave him back his rightful place in my living room. 

Welcome back to the family, Melty Head.  Keep your head out of the fireplace, you idiot (or idiont, as Eli says)!