Cool Under Fire

Dropshots.com
Dash survived his first Fourth of July.

I was concerned, as the annual city fireworks are in a park just five houses away. You can feel the booms in your chest, in your bones, coming up through your chair, echoing in the floor beneath your feet. It's awesome.

I was worried this might not sit well with the little Welshman. It was a good sign that the booming test shots in the daytime didn't interrupt his game of bocce ball (his version, involving herding the red, white and blue balls around the yard). The firecrackers set off by neighborhood kids weren't a concern either, except for one type that squealed long and loud before it exploded. These sent him fleeing toward the back door, barking, with ears pinned back.

Around dinnertime, Dash positioned himself on the sofa so he could see out the front windows and tell us about the people walking up the street toward the park. When night fell and the evening barrage began, he looked only mildly curious. No panting, no pacing, just relaxed posture and a curious expression. I had been ready to hop in the car and head for a quiet corner, but he was taking it in stride. I stepped outside to watch for a few minutes, and when I came in, he was waiting patiently by the front door, head cocked.

I went back in the bedroom, flipped on the tv, and invited Dash up on the bed to ride out the rest of the show. He fell asleep with his chin on my leg. In the midst of the thunderous finale, he lifted his head sleepily, looked at me, and let it fall back to the bed. No worries!