A Winter Tail by Deirdre B.

It is "Spring Forward" time again: time to change the clocks. But as I sit at my computer with my toothless little cairn Lovie on my lap, watching the thermometer plunge into the single digits while snow flakes fall from a sky the color of dirty grey hair, my mind wanders – not to thoughts of spring, but to another winter, a winter when I unwittingly became a killer of innocents.

In the mid 1990's, our family was living in Illinois. Just a few months previously, my son Scott & I had gone garage sale shopping and come home with a cairn terrier. She was a 4 year old strawberry blonde with imps of mischief in her eyes, a lopsided grin, and a prey instinct the likes of which only a Terrier could ever have.

My daughter Laura named her “Sassy,” after the cat in the Homeward Bound movie and because that’s what she was: Sassy! She waltzed into our home, our lives, and my heart with the attitude that said, "I am Cairn! Hear me roar!"

As fall had turned to winter, she guarded our home and yard from the fearsome onslaught of squirrels and birds, and the dreaded UPS truck, with tireless tenacity. Sassy, who weighed in at a mighty thirteen pounds, would stand guard at the bay window in the kitchen. Her sisters Gypsy & Zelda (both of indeterminate pedigree and outweighing her by about sixty pounds each) could be anywhere in the house doing their own thing, which was usually sleeping.

But when Sassy the sentry gave the call to arms, it was a rousing racket that even we mere humans recognized as saying, "We’re under Squirrel Attack! All troops report to battle stations for immediate action!"

The thunder of racing feet could be heard all over the house with the clickity clack of nails fighting for purchase on the white tile floor, as Zelda and Gypsy took the corner so fast they skidded around the staircase and into the mud room. By the time I had walked as far as the back door, three noses would be pressed against the crack, making it clear that no nanosecond should be lost before joining the forthcoming fray.

So, in other words, we were well defended.

That winter had been cold – cold even for the upper Midwest. It was a winter made for hot cider, fuzzy sweaters, and crackling fires. But the end was in sight: Spring was around the corner, and Punxsutawney Phil had promised us only six more weeks of winter.

One particular Saturday, we were all – five humans, three dogs and two cats – spending a quiet relaxing family day at home. Then she started.

Sassy was trying to dig up the tiles on kitchen floor, right in front of the oven. Like Jules Verne, she was intent on reaching the center of the earth.

“No! Sassy! Stop it!” I said as I picked her up and moved her away from the stove.

“Mom!” Adam called. “She’s doing it again!” And she was.

We aren’t talking play digging here; this was a serious attempt at excavation. Both front feet were going like miniature jackhammers. This dog meant business.

“NO! Sassy!” I said again (this time more firmly) and I picked her up. I hadn’t straightened my back until she was jumping back down onto the floor and going at it full force again.

By now she had gathered a large audience. Kenneth had come in from the garage. Laura, Scott and Adam had arrived, and Gypsy and Zelda had come to investigate the ruckus. You couldn’t get near the stove for fur and feet. Scott suggested we open the utility drawer at the bottom of the oven, to show Sassy there was nothing in there.

I pulled the drawer out, and before I could even move the cookie sheets Sassy jumped into the drawer, determined to dig right through. We pulled out the whole drawer and she dove into the hollow space. She whined. We dragged her out. She jumped back in. This was getting ridiculous.

I picked her up again, and this time she took a flying leap out of my arms and landed right on top of the stove, sending burner rings flying as she dug at the burners in frustration and determination.
We put her outside. NO WAY was she staying out there! There was something in the stove that she recognized as a danger, and there was no way she was not going to do her job and protect her family!

This was ludicrous. There was nothing in the oven, nothing on the stove, nothing in the drawer. But try telling that to a Cairn on a mission…

Then I had a brilliant idea. If I ran the "CLEAN" cycle on the oven it would eliminate whatever scent Sassy must be smelling. “Great thinking, Mom!”

So that is what I did, I took the roasting pan out of the oven, pushed over the "lock" mechanism and, clicked the stove into CLEAN mode. Now I don’t know how many of you have self cleaning ovens, but for those of you who don’t, let me explain a little something. The CLEAN cycle cleans by making things very very hot and by turning any leftover cooking debris into a fine ashy powder. And to protect the homeowner and his or her family from harm, once the oven reaches the "clean" temperature (which, although a bit cooler than the surface of the sun, is still mighty hot!) the oven door locks and cannot be opened. And, at least on the model that I had at the time, the CLEAN cycle cannot be stopped and has to run its full… well, its full cycle.

As the temperature in the oven rose, Sassy quieted down. “Ah!” thought I. “Brilliant!”

Then it started.

At first there was just a slight aroma … which turned into a smell … a kind of a burning smell... which became a full fledged reek … which grew stronger.

The children arrived back into the kitchen. “Mom! What is that stink?”

Mom looked blankly at Dad, who shrugged.

Then the smoke came ...

Did you know that the grill kind of thing at the back of an oven is called a “chimney?” Do you know why?

Until that day I had heard the term “billows of smoke," but I had never actually seen a real billow. However, as the CLEAN cycle continued inexorably onward, billows poured from that little chimney in the back of my stove.

And I knew – I knew in my deepest heart – that Sassy had been right. There really was something hiding somewhere in my stove, and I was murdering it.

But I could not stop the heat and I could not stop the smell (which I now subliminally recognized as burning flesh) and I for sure could not stop the smoke!

Nor could I seem to stop the smoke detectors from howling. I sent the boys upstairs to whack at them with the broom until their father could get to them. Kenneth ran around, jumping on and off of chairs, and yanking out batteries like some circus clown, trying to shut up the incessant bleating.

Finally, quiet descended. We paused briefly, savoring the silence. And then the choking, coughing, and gagging started, as the smoke continued to pour out of the stove vents. Everyone ran to windows and flung them open as quickly as you can open windows that have been carefully hermetically sealed with plastic and weather-stripping for an Illinois winter. Every ceiling fan was turned on, and I stood there looking at my soot blackening kitchen walls with tears running down my face – not for the mess, but because I had incinerated innocent mice. Poor homeless mice had looked for warmth somewhere within the confines of my stove, and I had just cremated them.

I was crying. The children were looking at me accusingly. And we were all gagging on the smell and freezing to death with the windows wide open.

Kenneth gave Laura the car keys and some money, and sent her and her brothers out to go to a movie and then to get something to eat. We figured that by the time the movie was over the house could be closed up & warm again.

Kenneth and I put on our winter coats and hats. We wound woolly scarves around our necks and noses, wrapped afghans around our knees, and spent a freezing February afternoon in the office with the ceiling fans on full blast and all the doors and windows wide open. Meanwhile, the oven continued the CLEAN cycle, and the pall of my crime slowly dissipated.

The children arrived home, warm and pink and excited after a pleasant afternoon’s adventure without Mom & Dad. The smoke was gone. The smell was bearable. We closed the windows and I got out the Pine-sol and the bucket and rags, and set about the job of washing walls and furniture!

“I’m cold and I’m hungry,” announced my husband, giving me the full force of his expressive hazel eyes.

“Yes,”, I said. “So?”

“So,” he said. “So when are you going to start cooking dinner?”

My mouth fell open. I turned and looked at him. “Are you out of your mind?” I asked. “Are you crazy?”

“I don’t understand,” he replied with a hapless expression on his face. “I am hungry. This is a kitchen. You are a good cook. What’s for dinner?”

I burst into tears. “You really expect me to cook on this stove? This stove where I barbecued a family of innocent mice?”

“This stove is a murder weapon!” I am never cooking in this stove again!! Never!”

“Well, the oven is clean,” offered my barbarian of a husband. “I really don’t see the problem.”

I walked over to the drawer, opened it and handed him a “take-out” menu. “Here!” I said. “Have at it!” And I went back to scrubbing walls.

The man who delivered the new stove listened to my story. Apparently it is quite common for mice to come into the house and to make a nest in the insulation between the outer and inner walls of an oven. He didn’t make me feel any better when he explained that it was probably when the baby mice were born that the smell or sound triggered the hunting instinct in Sassy.

Great! Not only did I kill some mice, but I burned up a whole family with tiny baby mice!

Sassy was with us for ten more years, and had many more adventures, but those are tails for some other winter’s afternoon…