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July 01, 2015
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A dog weighs in on the pure fear and terror that comes every 4th of July.

You humans confuse the hell out of me.

Just outside our home, for miles around, there are braut-wielding revelers lighting bombs and watching them explode. We are all in grave danger, and you idiots seem to be enjoying the hell out of it.

I’m cowering under the table and you’re laughing and waving a flag. I’m barking my ass off over here, and you’re grilling burgers. OK, I get the burgers — we’ll need food when the war starts.

That is what this is, right? A war? What else could this be?

Why are you smiling? Don’t you hear those distant pops and bursts? There’s nothing pleasant about that. When the tail goes under my leg, that does not mean “cut the watermelon.”

I can’t protect you from this shit, don’t you get it? It’s out of my league. I hear a gate open, I’m all over it. Explosion? I’m so spooked I’ve moved in with the cats under the bed. And even though I don’t speak cat, I can tell by the standing hairs on their backs they are scared as fuck, too. They also hate me, but that’s an ongoing thing.

This is worse than the vet. This is more serious than when the vacuum comes alive and eats the floor crumbs I was saving for a special occasion. It’s like 500 thunderstorms happening right outside our fucking door. Shit, this is almost as scary as the first time I encountered stairs.

Welp, great, I just pissed on the carpet, and trust me, I did not do it to express my approval of the whistling sparks firing off at the end of the driveway.

And just so you know, my ears aren’t flattened to increase my aerodynamics — it’s because I’m fucking freaking out. I’m trembling and it’s not cold, and I’m pacing as if a bitch I impregnated is in the other room and I’m anxious to see whether she had five pups or six.

No, I’m not whining because I want to play ball; I’m whining because we’re most likely under siege by an army of evil veterinarians wielding bombs and thermometers.

The sky is not only falling, it’s diving headfirst into my ears, screaming like an eagle with a beak full of Pop Rocks. I’m so confused by all this, which explains the shit I took in your shoes.

Stop trying to calm me down! You keep saying, “Blah blar fireworks, Bucket.” Fireworks? Fire sucks! It burns us and chars the delicious blood right out of meat.

And now you’re leaving me here, even though you have all the makings of a great day in the park in your hands — lawn chairs, cooler. What the fuck?!

What’s that in your hand? Ham! YUM. That made me feel a little better. Wait a sec, was there a pill in that? Oh, shit.

I remember now — this is what happened when the war came last year. You gave me ham, and it had a pill, and it made me sleepy as a 12-year-old bloodhound.

OK, fine. Go. Whatever. I’m gonna break out and warn everyone. I’m gonna … I’m gonna … I’m … fuckin’ vets …. Fuckkkkk the vet … Uck ‘emmmm … Hhhhammmm …. hhhhaaaammmmm….

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