Monday, July 4, 2011
Clench That Sphincter
At the age of sixty one, I couldn't give a rat's ass for fireworks. Not the big stuff that the city blows off, nor the crap that my moronic neighbors are shooting into the sky, and allowing to land on my roof. Probably I've come to dislike fireworks because of my dogs. Molly was a basket case, who would shiver in fear for hours while hiding under the table. Sasha is afraid of them, but not as bad. She just clings to me like Velcro. Little Sasha hasn't gone out for a pee, or poo since one o'clock this afternoon, and now at eleven in the evening I'm afraid she may burst. Chandler is the brave one. Every time a loud firecracker explodes the fur on his back raises, and he lets out a deep, loud bark. It's like he's saying, "Who the hell is that out there?". I just came back from walking him, and he seemed unperturbed by all the racket outside. That was until the rabble down the street lit some very noisy, and sparkly rockets. With a yank on the leash, Chandler started pulling to go back. I gave him his way, and we went directly home. Now I have two dogs in the house with full bladders, and sphincters clenched tight. I only hope they can hold it until the rockets red glare, and the bombs bursting in air stop.