Pyromaniac Puppy

    By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire.  Bad dog.  I go to the side of the house, I unring the hose, screw it in the faucet, and point it at the fire:   The water comes out, but the fire doesn’t terminate.  Damn it!   Bad dog!   So, I turn off the hose and the fire’s still there. I think of calling 911, but then I remember my son, Sean,  got a chemistry kit for a science class with a fire blanket.   I find Sean and tell him I need his old chemistry kit.  

    “Why?” Sean asks. 

     “Because of the puppy.  Just get the goddamn chemistry kit,” I say.  

     Sean goes in his room and looks around.  He looks in his closet and finds it on the upper shelf.   I take it down, open the box, dump everything in the chemistry kit on Sean’s bed and find the goddamn fire blanket. 

     I exit Sean’s room, run down the stairs, go outside, and put the blanket on the fire.  It seems to work.   But, after five minutes (I set a timer), I take off the blanket and the fire crescendos back to six feet.  What kind of fire did this puppy make and why!   And how?   He doesn’t even have opposable thumbs.   Damn it. 

     So, time for plan C:   Call 911.   I take out my cell phone and call.   The lady says, “911.  What’s the emergency?”  I tell her, “Fire,” and give her my address.   The fire department comes in three minutes, sees the puppy’s (we still have to name this son-of-a-bitch) fire, attaches their hose to the marked red fire hydrant.  (The puppy peed on it to mark it as his own.) The firemen (and firewomen) point two hoses at the puppy’s fire and the white liquid goes on the fire, but nothing happens; the fire’s still there.  The firepeople do things I tried, then one of the fireman come up to me and ask:

      “What happened?   What kind of fire is this?   Gas?   Natural gas?   What is it?” he asks.  

      I give him a blank look and say, “I dunno.   We got a new puppy and he started it,” I say.  

      The fireman puts his head down, shakes his head, and mumbles something.   Then, he goes back to helping the other firefighters, as best he can.   The fire looks like Moses’ burning bush, but it’s grass, not a bush and it’s now eight feet tall. 

     “One of them say, “Maybe we should let it burn out.  It’s gotta run out of fuel eventually”.   So, they move bricks, rocks, and other inflammable objects around the fire and wait.  And wait.   After one hour, the flames are still there, but taller.   Great, we’ve adopted a pyromaniac.  Wonderful.  

     So, the firefighters do their best, but it won’t go out.  The puppy’s getting punished for this.  No treats for at least a week.  

*

    So, this fire’s burning, then the psychos start coming.  Great.  Just what we need.  The first one is a Catholic Priest.  He first prays to Jesus Christ to exorcise the demons out of this yard and to exterminate these flames; Nothing happens.  The flames are still there.  The priest says he trusts in Jesus, confesses his sins, and asks the Holy Father to remove these evil flames.  Again, nothing happens.  The priest says he trusts in Jesus to exterminate this flame:  But, nothing happens.  

*

      Then a crowd starts forming around the fire, like rubberneckers around a car crash.  Then, one of the people ask who created this groovy fire.  Groovy?   It’s not groovy, it’s a pain in the ass.  It’s dangerous.  But, I point to the puppy and say, “He did”.   Then, it starts happening:   The people start deifying this stupid dog.  

     They call this flame the holy eternal flame, like the kind they’ve seen in synagogues and then a young woman (who happens to be from Israel) says in Hebrew they read from right to left, instead of left to right.  Then, she asks me what this puppy’s name is.  

     I think, then say, “He doesn’t have a name yet.   We’re working on it.  Right now, he’s just called the puppy or the dog.”

   “Right, now let us think.  How would we read the name ‘Dog’ in Israel?” she asks.  

    Everyone thinks, then I say, “No, no, no.  He’s not a God, he’s just a dog.  He’s just a naughty, stupid, dog, who somehow started this fucking fire.   He’s just a dog.   A dog. A really bad dog.”

     Then the people start whispering to each other.  Then, after a couple minutes, a few of them build a three walled hut out of scrap wood.  

     I hold on to this bad puppy, tight, but the mad mob grab each of my arms and pulls them (my arms) away from my puppy. 

    “But I paid for him, he’s for my kids.  This is my dog.”  The sucas (mad mob) take the puppy to the alter and the fire.  Shit!   Please, God, please don’t let them burn this puppy as a sacrifice to the gods.  

    And the God(s) hears my prayer.  A few of them go to their homes and come back with Cole cuts:   Slices of honey ham, roasted lamb, chicken breast, ground beef and the way children roast marshmallows over a camp fire, the sucas take fireplace metal pokes and recook the precooked meat, take it out of the fire, take the meat off the sticks, and offer the sacrificial meat to the puppy who, tail wagging, gladly accepts their offerings.  Great.

      Then, after this puppy has consumed this meat, the sucas start asking questions to my puppy like, “Will my son recover from cancer?   Can you make him better?”  “Give me a boyfriend who isn’t afraid to commit,” and lots of other requests and all the puppy did with any of these idiots was wag his tail and lick some of them.   But after all 548 people made their prayers to my puppy, they offered him more meat, which he devoured, then some of them kissed him, but then they went home.  The fire is still blazing.   God only knows what tomorrow will be.  

     I take the puppy inside the house to the basement, we all sit on the couch, I give this puppy his seat.   It’s time for our first family discussion.  

     I start off, “First of all, you’re no God,”

      The puppy puts his nose to the ground and puts his tail between his legs

      “You’re no God.”