Yesterday was the Summer Solstice. Now, I don’t get around to as much witchery as I’d like, but hubs and I are pretty good and dedicated to observing the two solstices and equinoxes. So, even after a pretty crummy week out of a pretty crummy month, we promised we would have a fire and a toast to the turning of the wheel.
If you follow me on Insta, you probably saw that we got a new fire table recently. The thing is so big that we needed to get rid of the picnic table we had. The table was old and rarely used, though our schoodle, Merlin, did enjoy sunbathing on it from time to time.
And if you follow on Insta, you know that rather than just throwing the table out, we re-purposed it into a pretty cool bench.
It was even Merlin-approved. The dude knows the table is gone and didn’t seem to care, as you can see.
Now. Last night was not the first time we’ve all sat outside together around the new fire table. We’ve done it quite a few times in the last couple of months because we quite like it. We bring out two dog beds for both puppies, putting the tiny bed between the two chairs because, otherwise, Merlin has no chill.
He knows the routine.
So, last night, we lit the fire, we raised a glass, and settled in. Merlin was standing opposite us on the other side of the table, staring at us. So I snapped my fingers and waved my hand and told him to come around the table to me — a command combo both he and his big brother understand.
Merlin walked closer to the table. The obviously on fire table.
“No, Merlin. Around,” I said in my dog-command-voice and made the hand motion again.
Merlin peered over the edge of the table.
I set my glass down and leaned forward, starting to push out of the Adirondack chair. “Merlin, no.”
Then he jumped. ON THE TABLE THAT IS ON FUCKING FIRE.
“NO!” I screamed and I think hubs did too. And Merlin spun and kicked off the table, sending sparks into the air, like a cat fleeing water.
The table is a glass fire table, which means no sparks. Nothing to catch fire. Except maybe fur. And, being that it is glass that is ON FIRE, means that glass is really fucking hot. But we both saw sparks burst in the air.
I dove to the puppy on the concrete and scooped him up and hugged him to my chest, hoping to smother anything that might be burning.
Reader: he was fine.
One paw smelled of singed hair, but there was no evidenced of burned fur or paw pad. But let me tell you, that dog is not a fan of being crushed in a bear-hug, so the fact that he didn’t wriggle and fight says a lot.
If you look closely, you can see the streaks in the dust where his paws were.
Here, you can see a little divot in the glass where his paw hit (you might see the larger, amber colored glass under the more square, smokey quartz glass).
So yeah. That’s how we rang in the turning of the wheel and how I’ll know, on my deathbed that I probably still had a year to go if it wasn’t for this furball.