he woke up in a similar panic and all he computed was "stove" and got down on the floor looking under the couch repeating, "cat . . . cat". i tried to tell him no, the cat wasn't on fire. was there something on the stove?
at this point i came to my senses, while he was still dragging the cat out from under the couch, And . . . a lighter she had knocked down earlier. at this point he came to his senses and followed me into the kitchen.
now he's up having soup, which turned out pretty damn good. i can't believe we didn't set ourselves on fire.
time for a xanax. and to pet a cat.