As everyone knows, I like dogs much better than people. See here for Elvis, Zoey and our “dog in the box.” I also know that the Fourth of July wouldn’t be the same without fireworks. Indeed, when Keller went off to college we found a whole stash of fireworks under his bed–I would have much preferred dirty magazines. Anyway, here is my plea for mercy for my dog friends: Remember that every time you fire off one of those damn things, some poor dog goes batshit.
So, shoot ’em off if you must, but as the sun sets and evening comes on the Fourth, drink your beer, eat your burger, but stop torturing my friends. Recall what Will Rogers said, “If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.” If you absolutely must satisfy some base need for cruelty, give your sniveling little kid or small grand child a hot sparkler. That’s when the fun on the Fourth really begins.