My wife keeps smelling smoke in this specific spot in our den. The first time she announced this I smelled nothing, zilch, then checked around the whole apartment, even opening the door to the hallway – again, nothing.
A few nights later, shortly after she again smelled smoke, a caravan of fire trucks, sirens screaming, came racing past our building.
The next morning, I awoke thinking to suggest that she hire herself out to the Fire Department. Like some domesticated dalmatian she could serve as a first alert system saving dozens of lives.
I have since encouraged her to approach the local fire station located just a few blocks from where we live and, after hounding her for months, she stopped there. The Lieutenant, at first, put her off as some kookie broad bored with housekeeping tasks looking for excitement but ever since she forewarned them on two separate occasions, he agreed to let her hang out sniffing around the neighborhood, assigning her to a 5-block radius reaching in all four directions: a square mile estate.
In just two months she has sniffed out a few fires and now rarely comes home. She likes hanging out with the guys and keeps letting me know how cute and courageous they all are.
I’m now afraid I’ll never get her back as she stakes out her territory chasing down fire trucks as they race to put out fires. Just yesterday I spotted her sitting at the open window of a fire truck speeding past to the next fire, her blond hair waving in the wind, eyes wide with excitement.
Bert Hirsch is a lifelong resident of New York City, He holds an MSW degree from Hunter College and for 35 years treated veterans with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He is a contributing writer to the anthological novel, The Assassination of Olaf Palme, by Rick Harsch.
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