Things I am Afraid of By Pocket Dog: The Kitchen

In contemplating my blogging responsibility for this week I considered listing everything that scares me but after toiling for three days like a venerable monk copying the old Testament with a quill pen I realized the work would consume the rest of my days so I picked one topic to expand upon.

And that topic is the kitchen.

I do not fear an inactive kitchen when the plates are locked up, the mugs carefully hung on their tree, and the utensils stacked peacefully.  But when Mommy frees the plates, plucks the mugs and unsettles the utensils I begin to tremble as my serenity and backbone are reduced to Jello.

I do not like noise!  Plates clashing with countertops, glasses clapping together, a sharp knife slicing through fresh vegetables and landing on wooden cutting boards, blenders whirring, slicing and mixing, fusing together and creating the sound of chaos which equals danger.

I know dogs from the time the first animal was cleaned and the first vegetable harvested have endured these sounds but today’s kitchen has spurned a new and more frightening noise.

Beeps!

I hate beeps whether they be from smoke alarms or alarm clocks but mostly I hate that noise coming from the kitchen.  When I was a young dog I lived a virtual beep free life.  But then we got a new stove and instead of the reassuring sound of flames springing from a gas jet the stove does nothing but beep.

As soon as Mommy begins preparing in the kitchen I begin trembling.  I first take solace on Daddy’s lap but as the pots crash against one another and plates crash I climb to higher ground:  His shoulder.  Then comes the beeping.  The ceaseless beeping.  To set the stove, to warm the stove, to set the microwave.  The oven door bellows with indignation when it opens.  The racks screech as they are pulled forward.  There is more beeping as the stove is set again, and even more as the same is done for the microwave.

And then comes the cutlery.  The wicked cutlery:  Sharp edges and prongs.  Damn those Disney movies with their dancing knives and forks.  Knives do not kill people but dancing knives will mess you up!  I jump down from Daddy’s lap and hide behind Mommy’s recliner hoping that if the flatware does animate they won’t be able to find me.

Within an hour the danger passes.  The tableware is set and silenced.  The oven door yields with less resistance.  The racks glide out.   Delicious smells overcome the noise.  I trot out from behind the recliner.  Like all survivors I crawl from my safety zone following the smell of food looking for something good to eat.

Fear builds quite appetite.