"Fire!"

"Mama, a FIRE!" yelled Demi as she peered out the kitchen window. I stumbled out the back door into the early morning fog, my brain itself still foggy from a night's sleep and not even a half a cup of coffee. My first thought was: the horses.

The fire turned out to be a giant bonfire lit with the blessings of a Sonoma County burn permit. The culprits my hay-growing neighbors, who plucked the last of the beautiful 100-year-old walnut trees out of the earth last fall in a quest to squeeze another 10 bales of oat hay out of the field.

The sad remains of the much-loved old walnut trees sat in piles along our property line all winter, looking like brave but fallen soldiers. On Tuesday, they were set ablaze, just 100 feet from our barn.

The horses went mad as they watched the giant burn pile, with flames licking 30 feet into the sky. I could see the flames from the house. The way they reached up behind my barns, it looked as if all of Watermark Farm was on fire.

Early morning, and I was running around in my pajamas, sans the famous orange down coat. I was cold, and bra-less, and I am sure that the sight of me, --- really angry, breasts flapping freely with every long running step, tangled brown hair pinned wildly on top my head --- is still being discussed in circles of walnut tree murders and professional arsons.

"Do you have a permit for.....this?" I screamed and gasped at them. "Do you have any idea how frightened my horses are? The damage this could cause?"

The arsons blinked at me wordlessly.

I calmed the horses and moved a few into stalls without a view of the fire. I threw them some hay to distract them before running into the house to put in a venomous phone call to the hay farmer. There is right and then there is courtesy. They have a right to a permitted burn, but courtesy would dictate an advance phone call to me. The hay farmer apologizes profusely enough that I feel like a bit of a jerk.

I stood on the back porch a moment later, watching the horses, who seemed to have settled down and, for the most part, were ignoring the flaming pile in favor of their breakfast.

All except Argus, who had a nice view from his pasture (where he now spends most nights). Argus was standing with his friend Half Pint, who seemed to be taking it all in stride. Argus was not afraid, or even agitated.

He was excited. Not a bad, run-through-the-fence kind of excited, but a delighted "this is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me!" kind of excited. He was wide-eyed, and happy! Fire!! Men skulking around it!! A huge backhoe standing at the ready! His dog-tired foster mom flapping and squawking her way through the barnyard! "This is so wonderful!" you could almost hear him say, "I've always loved watching fires!"

Argus stood and looked at that fire for several hours, hardly moving. I carried his breakfast to him, but his interest in eating was limited to the occasional bored bite.

The smoke filled the air. It was terrible. The other horses headed for the pasture furthest away from the fire.

Argus stood like a statue, watching happily, pressed against the comforting cold steel rails of the pipe pens.