It all started because my young cat Harry, who is normally happy to spend his day whipping around in circles trying to catch that always-surprising wiggly thing on the back of his butt, suddenly proved to me he was actually a lot smarter than I had imagined.
At some point, he'd figured out a way to break into the Tupperware containers containing his kibble. Which is remarkable considering I have had trouble getting into them myself.
Perhaps chasing your tail hones the reflexes. I don't know.
Anyway, because of the catburglary, I was forced to put the containers of kibble into a place where someone without thumbs could not go: my oven. Harry and his partner in crime, Alice, had already figured out how to open all of the kitchen cabinets, and I imagine when I get my next credit card statement I'll see they've also run up a whole bunch of internet bills-- Ebaying scratching post mansions, Netflixing The Truth About Cats and Dogs, stuff like that.
The oven had been my last forbidden locale.
Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew there was a risk I would forget that my oven had become a giant kibble storage unit and Bad Things Would Happen.
Last evening was the night of Very Bad Things.
I think it went wrong because I had steak on my mind. I'd been looking forward to it all day like a rattlesnake sits coiled for an unwary hiker's leg. So when I whisked through the door in the evening, I was a whirlwind of pre-steak activity and excitement.
I put down my stuff, grabbed the kibble from the oven, fed Alice and Harry, put the kibble back, went upstairs and changed, came back down and...
Preheated the oven.
Clearly, I have the short-term memory of a hummingbird on speed.
A movie, I thought. A movie would be nice to watch along with my Savory Steaky Joy. So I went to my DVD cabinet and began to peruse the selections.
Soon the cats were acting funny, as if they seemed to be hearing something I wasn't, which I didn't think much of at first, since it can be the house settling, a car door outside, a stinkbug two floors up, or two spiders duking it out in the basement.
Until I noticed the sound of indoor hail raining down.
Alas, it was not a meteorological system sweeping through my home. It was the sound of a two-pound bag of freshly-roasted cat food escaping its rapidly-melting Tupperware jail and testing the bonds of gravity.
The smell of plastic and hot turkey-fiber nuggets wafted in great black clouds. And as I shrieked, turned off the oven and began to say a few words of mourning for my beloved pink vintage Tupperware, Alice and Harry were summoning up their appetites like two regulars at Old Country Buffet.
So there I was, trying to keep them from sucking down potentially chemically-coated kibble like small, furry Dysons, while trying to peel plastic off my oven grill before it stuck forever.
Of course, devoted blogger that I am, I also had to take photos. Yes, for the loss of vintage pink Tupperware, one sheds a tear. For personal enlightenment to one's own deep failings, one finds new understanding. A blog post, however, that is really good stuff.
(Remember: only you can prevent oven fires. Only you.)
PS- I never did get the steak.
