Oops! Jumped the Fireworks!

The fireworks came and it wasn’t even the Fourth of July.  The town exploded shortly after it was announced that there would be no fireworks allowed in the community for the celebration of our nation’s 250^th birthday.  That original news was received with great joy by many.  Those veterans with PTSD rejoiced.  There would be no explosions to trigger traumatic memories of combat experience.  Those with small children and babies who are sensitive to loud noises ruining their bedtimes . . . same with the old folks wanting to go to bed early—they rejoiced.  Those with pets, especially dogs, who hear loud noises six to eight times louder than humans and are scared into panic.  They rejoiced, knowing there would be peace and calm.  For a moment there was great joy . . . but only for a moment.

Then the fireworks began.

 

Social media blew up attacking and ridiculing the town, the council, and mayor.  Like a scorned lover they beat a path to town hall like the villagers storming Frankenstein’s castle.  The only things missing were the pitchforks and flaming torches.  Wisely they left those in their pickups.  For seven days the campaign was waged.  The battle was referred to as “lively discussion”.  Of course, that description depended on which side of the discussion you were on.  Needless to say, it escalated to the point that it blurred the lines of civility and mayhem.

 

Mayhem won.

 

Seven days after the town announced its fireworks ban the mayor rescinded the ban.  Fireworks were back in business.  The mob patted itself on the back.  The noisiest wheel had gotten greased.  A different joy filled the air pushing the brief exhilaration of the previous declaration to the side of the road.  The veterans mourned.  The parents and elderly sighed.  Pet owners were sad.  Fourth of July without fireworks was lost. The noise and chaos had won.

 

I count myself among those who grieve over losing a noiseless celebration of the Fourth of July.  I’ll be drugging one of my pups to relieve her fear and anxiety.  We will sit in the basement with the television loudly blaring in hope that between the mindbenders and competing noise she will feel safe and calm.  It is sad that we will become prisoners in our own home to satisfy the need of a few wanting to blow up something.  But, hey!  That is the American way.

 

In the original declaration of banning fireworks, the town council cited fire concerns.  That is a legitimate concern.  Montana has been in a drought for over a year.  We have entered the “fire season”.  With the lack of snow in the winter and sparse rain in the spring things are drier than usual.  The risk of fire is real.  Check out the fires in Colorado, Utah, and California.  As I write this there is a 6,000-acre fire just down the road south of us in between the communities of Bridger and Fromberg.  The council’s decision was reasonable.  The risk was too great.  The council thought better of it.  A resolution was made.  Debate ensued among the council.  The question was raised and the vote was taken.  The resolution passed.

 

For a few of the seven days there had been the possibility of rain.  Calling what was actually received would be generous.  In totality there was only .12 inches of moisture.  A little over a tenth of an inch.    It was what some folks would call a “nine-inch rain” . . . nine inches between every drop.  It wasn’t exactly the deluge of Noah’s epic flood, but it represented a flood in the minds of the local pyromaniacs.  God was telling them, “to go forth and blow things up to your hearts’ content.”  Truly, a tenth of moisture was good enough for shooting off fireworks they argued . . . and argued . . . and argued.

 

Worn by the tenacity of the assault, the mayor—not the town council—removed the ban.

 

Though fire risk and lack of moisture were the reasons behind the ban, the real focus was more theoretical and political.  Those in favor of fireworks felt their freedom and constitutional rights were being attacked and taken away.  It was their “right” to light fireworks and blow up the town.  I checked my copy of the Constitution—both state and federal, and I could not find where it talked about the freedom to shoot off fireworks.  It was claimed that this was the first step toward tyranny—a fireworks ban! I wonder where in the hell they have been since the incumbent president has run amuck over our country, its constitution, and citizen’s freedom for the past 18 months.  I guess that is another day and debate.  None the less, they turned the argument political.

 

Those who were for fireworks were America’s defenders.  True patriots.  Those against the fireworks were libtards, communists, socialists, and anti-America.  Unpatriotic.  They pointed fingers and declared a conspiracy to overthrow the president and government.  Besides it is the Semiquincentennial of the United States of America—the 250^th birthday!  That is enough cause to blow up the town.  It was a patriotic duty and damn all those communistic and socialistic libtards!  If they don’t like it, they can leave America . . . or at least town for the Fourth.  The mayor passively aggressively noted that “right” in declaring the ban removed in a letter to the community.

 

Rain and politics are debatable.  Yet the crux of the problem was actually simple . . . the rules.  In their benevolent desire to appease what many would rather have—a Fourth of July void of fireworks, they got the cart before the horse.  The decision did not follow protocol.  Those in the community who live and die by the letter of the law when it is in their favor discovered that.    As caring as the original resolution was, it was for naught.  There were those who gleefully pointed it out to the mayor and town council.

 

And they were right.  Procedure was not followed.  Notice of the resolution was not made public (it was a spur of the moment thing).  Public hearings on the resolution were not had.  It was not on the agenda for the public to witness.  Technically the resolution and vote were not legal.  Technically it was null and voided out the gate.  The restoration of fireworks was decreed and quickly made.  The town, the council, and mayor did not need the mess this whole fiasco created.

 

Though I was madder than a wet hen upon learning the fireworks were restored, I did calm down by the end of the day.  I’m disappointed in the mayor’s decision, but I also understand the ramifications if the decision had not been made.  I’m sadden because I believe that more townspeople lean towards a firework ban for the Fourth of July celebration than the willful noise assault of exploding fireworks.  I feel for my dogs who must be drugged for their sanity and safety.  I pray for the veterans with PTSD that they are safe and not thrown back into the horrific trauma of the conflicts they experienced.  I wish the parents of children and babies the best of luck in getting their kids to sleep.  And those elderly . . . I guess they are on their own.  We lost.

 

To the victors go the spoils.  Freedom and individual rights have been served.  The communistic socialist assault on our nation and its liberty has been repelled.  The libtards have been put in their place. Freedom rings.  Fireworks have been redeemed to their sacred place.  Life is back to normal.  God will watch over us all . . . God will keep us safe.  After all, we are God’s chosen people . . . chosen nation.  We are the United States of America.  God’s favorites.  The president said so.  Damn the rest.  They are on their own.  Let the fireworks begin . . .

 

. . . I hope it rains.

 

A Broken Stitch

“A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.”

(Josh Billings)

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

(Roger Caras)

In Alcoholics Anonymous they say, “Shit happens” . . . especially when you least expect it and want it.  This morning, around 10AM, our Boxer—Maddie Rose—suffered a seizure and died.  Our son, number 2, who has Epilepsy witnessed it all and tried in vain to help her . . . but to no avail.  I got the tearful phone call at work around 10:30AM . . . he couldn’t get a response out of her . . . through his tears he thought she was dead.  I was floored as I left the conference call I was in, attempting to console him and tell him that everything was okay . . . all the while I could feel the shards of my broken heart falling . . . falling.  I could feel the tears swelling up in my eyes . . .

Needless to say, I did not make it through the conference call.  I excused myself and went home . . . it was the longest forty minute commute I have ever experienced.  I fought my tears all the way home in hopes that Maddie Rose would be okay, all the while knowing that she was dead.  Isn’t that what we do?  Hope for the best when we know that the worse has already happened . . . I don’t do well with a broken heart . . . who does?

Maddie Rose entered my life over nine years ago as a itty bitty puppy.  She was the 11^th of 12 puppies, and she became the caboose when #12 died.  She was the runt of the litter who was lovingly nursed to health by my friend.  She was presented to me while I was in the hospital recovering from my very first hernia surgery—in which I caught pneumonia and ended up spending a week in the hospital.  She was brought to me to cheer me up.  It was love at first sight.  From then on she became my constant companion . . . for years, everywhere I went, she went.  Always by my side. 

Hours later, as I write this, she is gone . . . she has died.  Like everyone who loses a loved one to death, I have gone through all of the feelings and emotions.  This morning was one of those rare mornings when I did not have the opportunity to have my “Maddie time” as I was leaving early—3:30AM early—to take the oldest son to the airport.  I did not get the chance to say hello—or even goodbye—to Maddie before I left . . . a daily ritual we always shared when I was preparing to leave.  I am angry about that . . . but, the angry only shadows the sadness and grief I am really feeling.  Yeah, I have been through them all . . . sadness, anger, guilt, loneliness . . . I don’t think I have missed any of them . . . they were, and are, at the party.  None of it replaces Maddie’s presence in my life . . . I miss my dog.

Who wouldn’t?

Maddie Rose was the best dog I have ever had.  She was faithful . . . caring . . . gentle . . . she was a lover.  They say that Boxers are the world’s biggest lap dogs, and Maddie sure loved the lap.  She always had to be touching . . . reminding you that she was there.  She was the world’s best greeter—didn’t matter if you had been gone for a year or ten minutes, she was always there, leaning against you, wagging that stub of a tail, licking your face—the Boxer dance of joy.  God, I loved being greeted with such enthusiasm.  She made me feel as if I was someone important when no one else seemed to care. 

She was gentle . . . and, she was an introvert.  She was a shy dog that took her time sizing up people before she welcomed them into her world, but once she did . . . watch out!  She was your best friend, and she had lots of best friends.  She was quiet . . . she rarely barked, but when she did . . . you had better listen.  People were always surprised when she barked because she had such a deep voice.  Her bark was way worse than her bite . . . she never bit anyone or anything . . . she was a lover, not a fighter.

This probably sounds like a lot of rambling around, but isn’t that what we do when we lose someone or something that we love to the core of our being . . . we ramble.  All I know is that I lost a being that was dear to my heart . . . a companion who shared my life with me . . . who cared about me . . . who loved me . . . and I love her equally as well . . . and, now she is gone.  Like a flash of lightening . . . she has disappeared into the darkness.  Who would have thought that over nine years ago that the two of us would have crossed a line, jumped into a world of life’s endless possibilities for wonder and joy and surprise of what we would experience together.  She had me from that very first moment when she leaped up those hospital covers, shoved her face into mine, and gave me that great big puppy kiss.  I was hers and she was mine.

Carolyn Parkhurst writes: “The conclusion I have reached is that, above all, dogs are witnesses. They are allowed access to our most private moments. They are there when we think we are alone. Think of what they could tell us. They sit on the laps of presidents. They see acts of love and violence, quarrels and feuds, and the secret play of children. If they could tell us everything they have seen, all of the gaps of our lives would stitch themselves together.”

The stitch has been broken . . . I miss my dog.  I will dream of her and gentle, sloppy dog kisses.  Maddie Rose will be missed . . . by me, by the family, and by the countless people whose lives she has touched.  She was a gift . . . a blessing . . . and, we just do not get enough of those in our lives.  I wish I could stitch it all back together again . . .