Cabin Fever (8 page)

“I could probably rig up a little cart and a harness. What do you say?”

At least he doesn’t growl at me now when I look at him. Gee, it only took him forty-five minutes to warm up to me. Little jerk. I fed him a whole can of food; you’d think I’d earned some sort of trust with that. I guess not.

“I suppose you’re expecting another can of food. I don’t know why, though. You haven’t lifted a paw to help since you got here.”

I have to stop to wipe my hair out of my face. The snow has turned it into a sopping mess. “What do you think?” I ask my friend Jaws. “Can we save the rest of this for tomorrow maybe?” His expression looks like a
yes
to me, so I turn around and head for the porch, two logs in my arms.

“Okay, so back into the house I go. I have to build a fire. Are you coming?” I look at him over my shoulder, but he just stands there.

“I’m going inside, Jaws. If you don’t come in, you’ll freeze out here. The temperature’s already dropping in case you hadn’t noticed.”

I drop the logs on the pile that’s spread out over half the porch and open the front door. “Come on in, little guy. I have tons of food in here. You’ll eat like a king, I promise.”

He stares at me, but doesn’t make a move.

“Is your butt frozen to the ground or what?” I’m only half kidding. When I can’t decide if it really is a problem for him, I take a step towards him. He moves as if he’s going to leave.

“Okay, fine. Your butt’s not frozen. I’ll keep the door cracked for you.”

I’m only inside the house for two minutes before I realize what a horrible idea that is. No way can I leave that door open. I won’t be any good to that dog out there frozen to death in here. Except maybe as food, and that just gives me the willies to think about. I do not want to be eaten by a terrier.

When I open the door again, I find him closer to the steps but still too far away to indicate he’s committing to this relationship.

“I’m going to leave this blanket out here for you,” I say, putting the stinky wool blanket from the couch in a pile on the porch. “You can make a nice warm nest in it, and I’ll bring you some food and water in just a minute. Just let me get the fire going first, okay?”

He looks over his shoulder, like he’s considering leaving.

“Fine. I’ll leave you to figure it out.” Closing the door, I wait for the sound of paws on the steps, but nothing comes, so I leave for the fireplace.

I’ve never built a fire before, but I’ve seen it done plenty of times. What I need are some newspapers and some sticks. I look around the cabin and see exactly none of those things.

“Dammit.”

Searching through my bags, I find an Architectural Digest magazine that had photographs of some great fabrics in it that I was going to use as inspiration. “Oh well,” I mumble, tearing pages out and crumpling them up. “So much for inspiration.” My life is now all about function over form.

Half the magazine is in a pile in the fireplace before I stand and go on the hunt for sticks. Out the window I see plenty of them. Problem is, they’re still attached to the trees they’re growing on. Everything else is covered in snow. Then I remember the splinters sticking out of my jacket and scarf, and realize I have a whole pile of sticks attached to the logs out on the porch.

I nearly trip over the dog on my way out the door.

He growls so hard it sounds like he’s about to turn himself inside out. But he’s curled up on the blanket, and he doesn’t look like he’s ready to leave it anytime soon.

“Just relax,” I say, giving him a wide berth. “I’m just getting some sticks. Can’t have a fire without sticks, right?”

The logs I was given are huge. A few of them look like they were cut into fourths from a giant tree, and on the raw sides, they have some splinters sticking out. But try as I might, I can’t get more than ten of the little slivers with my gloves on, and when I try barehanded, I’m reminded how bad it would be for an artist to get frostbite of the fingers.

“Dammit.” There is one other solution, but I really don’t want to go there. I need that wood to make my canvases with.

“We’ll try it this way first,” I say to Jaws, ignoring him when he growls this time.

I stack my little twiglets up in the fireplace like a teepee, amongst the mass of paper, and pull out my box of matches. The first one flames bright, but it won’t catch the magazine papers on fire.

“What the hell!” I yell at the fireplace. “Fire meet paper! Paper meet fire! You guys can burn down entire houses together! Come on, man! Work with me!”

Thirty minutes of trying gets me exactly nowhere with this fire. And now there’s no more sunlight, even though there should be plenty of it according to my watch. The snow’s coming down so heavy my car will be buried in no time.

“Not like I was going anywhere,” I mumble to myself. Looking around, I chew my lip, trying to figure out what’s next on my agenda, since having a warm cabin isn’t it. My last resort is too terrible to contemplate. I can’t use the wood I brought for my canvases, even though I’m sure it’ll go up in flames within seconds, it’s so dry. I can’t be sure that the bigger town nearby will have what I need, and being here without painting supplies is completely contrary to the meeting of my goals. Damn, I done have goal
s
, plural. I only have
one
goal: to paint. I have to do what I can to keep that dream alive, even if it means I freeze my buns off in the meantime. There’s always tomorrow for heat, right?

“What to do, what to do, what to do…,” I say, walking towards the front door. I don’t even have a clear picture in my head about my next steps, but I do know one thing: Jaws is going to be my friend whether he likes it or not. Time to convince him I’m not the enemy. That’ll keep my mind off the fact that I’m stuck in a snowstorm without any heat, or at least I hope it will.

Chapter Eleven

HE GROWLS THE ENTIRE WAY, but I drag his blanket and his fuzzy little butt into the house anyway. The sense of triumph I feel as I shut out the cold, with him and me inside the cabin, is probably way out of proportion to what I’ve actually accomplished, but I don’t care. This is cause for celebration.

Jaws sits just inside the doorway eyeing me with suspicion as I take the bottle of wine I brought with me out of the fridge and pour myself a glass of it. There are exactly two wine glasses that survived the parties the squatters had in here, and I’m going to use the hell out of one of them.

My first sip goes down really well. “Nice,” I say, nodding as I look around the room. Things are looking up. I have a somewhat clean-ish cabin, wine, and a temporary pet dog. Now all I need to do is not freeze to death and I’ll be fine.

The entire time I prepare dinner, I talk to Jaws about what I’m doing, hoping it’ll help him warm up to me. I also continue to drink wine. By the time I’m ready to eat, half the bottle is gone. It’s helping warm the room up, at least.

“Here you go, Jaws,” I say, putting a plate of dog food down in front of his blankets. He growls, of course. “Bon appetit.”

I eat my dinner on the couch, wearing half of what I own on my body, gloves on my hands, and a blanket from the bed over my back keeping me warm as I choke down my formerly frozen and now over-cooked hamburger. At least the baked potato turned out okay. Glancing over my shoulder, I’m surprised to find Jaws still in his bed but his food gone. He’s a sly dog, that one. I giggle at my thoughts as I lean over to pour myself some more vino.
More wine is gooooood
.

At some point I put my plate down on the table and lie down on the couch, but I don’t exactly recall the details. All I do remember is stretching my legs out in sleep and hearing a horrible noise coming from the far end of the couch.

I crack an eye open and try to figure out what’s going on. Did I break the couch? Are those rusty springs below the cushions complaining because I’m moving? Geez, maybe I need to go on a diet.

But no. It’s not the couch, and it’s not my butt; it’s the dog. He’s sleeping on my legs.

“What the hell?” I push my upper body up to get a better view.

He looks at me, rests his head on my leg, and lets out a half-burp, half-growl.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shake my head at this pitiful mess. The two of us are perfect companions. We both need a bath and a clue. “Come over here, you little beast.” I reach over with my gloved hands and grab him, ignoring his growling bluster. “If you want to be friends, you don’t need to play hard to get.” I have so many layers of clothing on, I’m not worried about him biting me. He could go on a piranha attack and it would probably just feel like a massage. “I’m easy like that. Just snuggle up to me and we’ll be friends. See?”

He doesn’t bite me. He just vibrates with fake anger, even when I settle him down on the couch near my chest. The copious amounts of wine I drank tell me it’s okay to have the dog near my face, even though he’s threatening to grab my jugular. I imagine this guy has survived as long as he has by acting mad even when he isn’t. Maybe he doesn’t even know when he’s happy anymore. Poor little guy. My heart melts a little at that thought.

I throw the blanket over both of us and settle down deeper into the cushions, ignoring the siren call of my full bladder. It’s too cold to pee.

“Go to sleep now, Jaws. It’s late and I’m tired.” I let out a big yawn and then cringe at my own breath when it comes bouncing back at me.
Yikes. Better find that toothbrush first thing in the morning.

As the warmth starts to seep in from our combined body heat, his growls turn to a whisper and then disappear altogether. As I drift off to sleep I imagine that I feel his little tongue lick my chin.

Chapter Twelve

I’M HAVING A NIGHTMARE THAT a bear has broken into the cabin and is coming after me. But I have a guard dog in this dream. He’s growling and snarling and scaring the bear, keeping him from attacking me.

Yeah, Dog! Get him! Get that bear!

“What the hell is going on in here?!”

Hmmm
. The bear speaks English. That’s something new. I’ve never had talking bears in my dreams before. Must be the cabin that’s inspiring my creativity.

“Who the hell are you?!” he growls.

Rude. This bear has a lot to learn about human manners.

Then a smell hits me and it doesn’t compute. Smellovision? Since when do I have that in my dreams? My brain urges me to get up because there is something very wrong with this odor. It smells like a stinky dog who hasn’t had a bath in about a year. And it’s right up against my nose.

“Holy crap, Jaws, have you been rolling in something?” My words are a little slurred, from the wine or the sleep I’m too disoriented to know for sure.

When my eyelids finally peel open, I have to blink several times to get the images in front of me to make any sense. And then when they do, I shoot from my lying-down position to a sitting-up one and grab the very angry little dog and hold him against me along with the covers.

There really is a bear in here.

“You’d better start talking, Lady, or you’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“You’re not a bear.” I’m blinking too much. The wine is kicking my ass. What time is it, anyway?

He scowls at me. “What?” His gaze drops to the table and takes in my wine glass. “Are you drunk?”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” I’m finally getting my wits back and realizing the situation I’m in.

Me and Jaws.

Alone.

In a cabin.

In the middle of nowhere.

And a strange man has broken and entered.

I look out of the corner of my eye and see a knife on the counter about six feet away. My heart plummets when I realize I’ll never make it there in time.

“What am
I
doing here?” he asks, incredulous. “That’s pretty rich coming from someone who broke into
my
cabin.”

“
Your
cabin? This isn’t your cabin. This is James Oliver’s cabin. And Jana’s too, probably.” My chin goes up. “They loaned it to me.”

He lets out a long hiss, shaking his head as his chin drops. “Fucking-A awesome.”

He’s not reacting like I expected him to. “You know them?”

He leaves the family room and goes into the kitchen. “You could say that.” Opening the fridge, he leans in to see what’s inside.

“That’s my food in there, and I don’t have a lot, so don’t even think about stealing any.”

He glances at me over the door and then goes back to his food-ogling.

“You buy that wood out there on the porch?” he asks, his voice muffled by the fridge.

The strange question throws me off, making me forget I should be scared. Jaws is confused too. He stops growling and sits down next to my hip.

“Yes.”

He stands and looks at the fireplace. “Tell me you didn’t try to start a fire with ho-logs.”

“Ho-logs?” I look over at my pitiful attempt at fire-building, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. I used
logs
, but ho-logs? Is that a brand? “What’re those?”

He closes the fridge and stares at me with his mouth hanging open. He’s kind of smiling and shaking his head.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re really that ignorant or if you’ve had waaay too much of that wine.” His gaze fixes on the mostly empty bottle in front of me.

“What?”
I throw the covers off me, accidentally covering Jaws. He struggles to free himself as I stand to face the intruder. “Did you seriously just call me ignorant?”

“Did you seriously not know you have to split the logs down to a reasonable size to get them to burn? You can’t put the bigger ones on until you already have the fire going or it won’t be hot enough for them to catch.”

I glance at the logs in the fire and realize they really do look kind of big.
Oooooh, waaaait a minute.
Did he say ho-logs or whole logs?
I’m betting the latter.

I shrug. “I’ve never lived in the mountains before.”

“Where are you from?”

“Boston.”

“It snows in Boston, last time I checked.”

“Yeah, well, it might snow in Boston but that doesn’t mean I build fires there.”