by Lina Bunte
A few weeks back, Duncan, my handsome Carin Terrier, woke me up by crying loudly. Now this isn’t unusual. He cries a lot. Mostly he cries in order for me to pick him up and place him on the couch or bed. He’s 14 and really only has one working leg. (Multiple surgeries and bad arthritis will do this.)
I ignored him for a few minutes. His cries never subsided. I threw my covers off and set my feet on the ground. Duncan started walking backwards, away from me. Weird. I stood up and leaned forward to pick him up, but he walked away! This happened twice. I shit you not.
By the third time, I was ready for him. I got up quickly and tired to grab him. No luck. He walks away, and this time I follow him. He walks toward the kitchen. I follow him. Maybe he needs water.
We get to the kitchen, his water bowl is full. I look at him, and he’s sitting right in front of the stove. We start a staring contest. After a minute, I give up and walk toward him in order to pick him up.
As I step closer, I smell gas. Not flatulence gas, (being a 14 year old dog, he’s really good at that too) but gas from the stove top!! I look up to the four burners. One knob was turned on.
Duncan saved my life. Really, he did.
It should be Cairn not Carin. Oops, my mistake. When it comes to these puritanical little euphemisms, I’m afraid I’m just as bad as everyone else.