Pocket and the Night of the Living Fire Works

I have never been overly bothered by fireworks.  My parents don't question why. They know I have hearing sensitivities to alarms, whistles, bells, heavy rain, thunder, kazoos, and whispers.  While they find this odd, they count their blessings and don't ask questions. 

On Thursday night, I ignored the persistent sound of fireworks popping in the distance.  I was sitting in Daddy's chair on his left side. This afforded me a view of the kitchen, and it's a western facing window. I saw something launched skyward. It reached its apex, and it exploded, shaking the house. 

I don't have an issue with fireworks, but explosions around our house make me wonder if we have relocated to Beirut.  My parents both reacted angrily. 

Before the sound had dissipated, I had a bad case of the trembles.  The shakes started at my head and soon overtook my entire body. I combated them by climbing on Daddy's arm and perching on his shoulder like a parrot with shell shock. 

It is a common misconception that dogs are afraid of fireworks. We are scared of our houses being blown up.  You can tell us that it is just some idiot shooting off fireworks, but you don't know that. What better time is there for someone to cover up blowing up a house than during fireworks? Thank God for dogs.  We never assume.

I was so scared I only ate half of my small plate second supper, which I usually gobble down.  I sat on Daddy’s chest, blocking the TV screen while my parents watched “Black Mirror.” I should be thanked for that.  I saw the whole program and didn't understand any of it.

The fireworks had stopped by the time we went to bed at 11:00.  I emitted a grateful sigh. At 1:00, I was comfortably snuggled with mommy, spooning at her waist when I heard:  “Pop, pop, pop, pop.”

I stood and experienced another full-body shudder.   I jumped on Daddy, who was pretending to sleep. I stumbled up his body to his chest and panted in his face. He rubbed me trying to calm me down, but the thought that someone was setting off fireworks at 1:00 when people had to work the next morning bothered him more than the shaking and the noise. His anxiety fed mine and vice/Versa.

Now that Daddy and I were wide awake he went on the local Facebook page and read people’s complaints about the fireworks, and people’s justification for setting them off: That it was harmless fun done by people celebrating the holiday.    Daddy toggled between two choices: The first was to find the people setting off the fireworks and beat them to death with a baseball bat; the second was to post a comment on the thread where people said that no one should complain about fireworks, that said “I feel the same way.  When I want to have harmless fun that doesn’t hurt anyone, I am going to break into your house and steal your stuff.” Discretion won out, and we both went back to bed.

The fireworks would sporadically continue to 3:00 AM.  At that time, Daddy and I both fell into a restless sleep.

If these fireworks continue for more than a day Daddy may leave a nasty comment on the firework’s lover’s Facebook page.




Or he may find the baseball bat and get some justice for me.