Yesterday I purchased a CD. But not just any CD. Oh no. It had the sound of New Year’s rockets on them. Around here people buy and fire their own rockets from their own backyards. Usually while drunk. Very, very drunk. Every year tons of stuff burn to the ground.
They always scare the living shit out of my dog. The rockets, that is. Personally I worry more about the neighbours, but what the hell. As soon as she hears the sound of fireworks, she shoots under the couch like a bullet, hitting the wall so hard that my depicted relatives rattle on their hooks.
It’s really quite amazing that she hasn’t given herself brain damage yet. Actually, come to think of it, she does spend a lot of time chasing and playing with bugs and little animals that clearly only exist inside her own head…
Now I’m working on gradually getting her used to the sound of New Year’s rockets. I guess we can hope that her eccentric behaviour won’t get any worse. Maybe.
From The Devil’s Dictionary:
Dog, n. A kind of additonal or subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the world’s worship. This Divine Being in some of his smaller and silkier incarnations, takes, in the affection of Woman, the place to which there is no human male aspirant. The Dog is a survival – an anachronism. He toils not, neither does he spin, yet Solomon in all his glory never lay upon the door-mat all day long, sun-soaked and fly-fed and fat, while his master worked for the means wherewith to purchase an idle wag of the Solomonic tail, seasoned with a look of tolerant recognition.
An idle wag of the Somomonic tail… Now there’s a mental image.