Cottage Daze by James Ross Page B

was affirmative. On the occasion of my fifteenth check, I received the response, “What’s for lunch?”
    â€œHot dogs!” I bellowed, wanting to sound like I had a plan.
    So back to the cabin I went, lit the propane oven, and tossed in a dozen buns. I placed a pot full of wieners and water on the gas element, then flicked my butane igniter — poof, easy. I hung up the lighter, very pleased with myself. I felt my stomach getting quite warm. I looked down, and to my horror saw that my paint-stained, soiled work shirt was afire. I patted it gingerly with my open palm, which made a “whoosh, whoosh” sound as it fanned the flame. Now, I knew what I was supposed to do in an emergency like this, but I was alone in a cottage far from civilization, and I would have felt quite silly rolling around with this small flame burning on my belly. So I waved my hand harder, which served to both spread the fire and knock the pot of wieners and water from their stovetop perch — water unfortunately soaking my pants but avoiding the fire.
    I rolled on the ground. I wasn’t burnt, but it was a mess. Then I heard the boat docking. I panicked and looked for the broom — seeing instead black smoke billowing out of the oven.
    Now, in this, the last chance I will ever be afforded to “hold the fort,” I did learn a lesson. The spray-in foam insulation is very flammable before it cures. So, if you’ve been working with it, guys, and wiping your hands on your work shirts, be very careful to not burn your wieners.
    Death of a Dog
    Unfortunately, I have buried many dogs in my lifetime — such is the canine business that I am in. But the one who lies beneath a stand of old cedars on our island’s highest point was the first to be laid to rest at the cottage.
    The day before had been like any other at the lake. The sun was warm, and we had spent the day playing in and on the water. The dog had run his usual distances, watching over the children in their play, keeping his eye on us, making sure to miss nothing and that nothing was amiss.
    Macky was not only a pet, but also a sled dog and my leader. He had worked by my side for years, helping me to earn my living. When his winter work was over, his happiest days were when he saw us loading up the truck with paddles and life jackets, propane tanks and fishing rods — criteria for him that signalled a trip to the cottage. He loved coming to the island because it meant a world of freedom, a place surrounded by water where he could run to his heart’s content. Nothing ever escaped his attention, especially if it smelt of trouble or adventure.
    When I woke from the boathouse bunkie in the morning, Macky was not there to greet me, as was his usual custom. I found him sick and distraught, lying under the boughs of an old spruce. He groaned. His stomach was rock hard.
    Death had joined Mack to the placed he loved.
    The day was dark and stormy. Thunder bellowed from the west and sheets of lightning lit the water. I picked up the dog and ran for the boat. The remoteness that was a desired part of our cottage escape was suddenly an enemy, and the drive to town was long. We made it to the vet in time to see the dog’s last breath, and I knew that if this had not happened at the cottage, perhaps we could have prolonged his life.
    I wept gently as I dug the hole for Macky, hacking away at tree roots and prying out rocks until it was sufficiently deep. I laid the dog’s muscular, handsome black and white body inside, tucked in his enormous paws, and used his old sleeping blanket as a shroud. On my hands and knees, I packed in the damp, spongy brown soil with a flat-faced shovel, pushing it down until the hole was full, swollen with its new burden. Then I marked the grave with a flat piece of granite I pulled from the lake.
    When this was done, my children joined me looking down at the mounded earth. My oldest cried with me, as we both knew we would