The Fourth of July is always nerve-wracking for our dogs. Merry, the chihuahua, is tremulous by design. She is so frightened of thunderstorms that she reacts to changes in barometric pressure or a few raindrops. Pippin, a Corgi/Pomeranian cross, is a rescue from a hoarder and has some residual anxiety issues. So four or five days of loud explosions, often going on for hours, set them on edge.
I used to like fireworks. I still like to watch a good display by people who know what they’re doing. But we’ve still got a fair amount of slack-jawed rednecks around here and they just like to blow shit up. For HOURS. And the result is my dogs spending HOURS one step away from shitting themselves.
I don’t enjoy the Fourth. I grilled burgers for us and had a couple of exceptional brews. But by six pm this town sounded like a city under siege and this was the fifth day in a row of this nonsense. I spent most of the evening wishing the Cletus families on either end of the street would blow off a few fingers so they’d quit early. At least a couple nights during the weekend we got thunderstorms that cut the nonsense short. The chihuahua was not enthused by the change in stimuli.
So I am now looking forward to a quiet weekend. I will grill again. I will drink beer again. And my dogs will sleep soundly.