I used to love fireworks.
When we were kids, my brothers used to enjoy the harmless fun of blowing things up with various strengths of crackers, usually converted into explosive weaponry of one form or another, whereas I liked the pretty sparkly ones. This was still true once I became a parent (of me anyway , not sure what happened with the brothers).
Every Guy Fawkes day, we’d go out into the garden once it got dark, and light a number of different fireworks. We had a(nother) disturbed dog at the time, a bitey border collie called Jamie, who was unusual in also being a big fan. She’d run round and round the noisy, sparkling thing with madness in her eyes. The loud noises didn’t bother our kids either, and I must admit I sneered a little bit at the wussy kids who didn’t like it.
Fast forward a few years, and I’m no longer loving it. The whizz-banging all night is a mild annoyance, but the terror it inflicts on poor elderly Poppy is heartbreaking to behold.
She’s not normally allowed on the furniture, but here she is last night, perched trembling next to my pillow.
I had several hours of this, with her panting and dribbling over me before things finally quieted down around midnight. And that’s just one dog. What about all the other animals in all the other houses, not to mention farms and zoos. And I’m sure lots of those little kids who hated the noise still hate it once they’ve grown up. And for what? A small number of people still living in the past, thinking that their fun trumps every other consideration. Time for this torture to end.