For the second time in as many weeks, Baby Bear burned himself on the stove.
This time he waited exactly five minutes after I turned off the burner—I know because I timed what I was cooking, and when he popped out of nowhere to slap the burner again, I looked at the digital clock on the range to see how long it had been since I turned it off. Five minutes—and it was still hot enough to burn him.
You’d think he would have learned after the last time.
And you’d think I would have remembered to cover that burner with the teakettle after turning it off. I’m usually a fiend about it.
On the upside, he showed more initiative in giving himself first aid. He willingly dipped his paw into the bowl of ice water I set out for him—I didn’t need to dip a washcloth in it and press it to his burn like I did last time. And even if I was dumber about the teakettle this time, at least I was a little smarter about where I put the bowl—in the sink. He’d take a dip, run around the house flapping his hand, then come back to the sink for another dip.
Eventually he wanted to run water over his burn. Then came the splashing, and the spraying, leading to puddles all over the kitchen counter and floor, which needed a good mopping anyway.
Maybe he did learn something from the last time: Burning himself results in the pursuit of his favorite pastime—turning the house into his own personal wild water adventure park. It’s a wonder we don’t have mildew.
Perhaps we should change his name to Aquaboy.