I hear it coming for days, small explosions building in intensity.
I am your dog.
Where are the police to stop this madness: Is the world ending?
My master seems calm. Will he save me?
I look in the kitchen. Maybe if I tear up this little sink mat?
Some comfort? No!
I head for under the bed, stay there for hours in between explosions (fireworks). I tremble. Nothing comforts me.
They can’t afford to make another vet rich by getting tranquilizers.
Does anyone care?
No amount of petting or gentle talk works. It seems no one cares. So I prepare my mind ahead of time for what the humans call “fun.”