It's Guy Fawkes Day here and much like The Horse Whisperer or gefilte fish, I wish it could be dis-invented.
I can't stand this night.
The fireworks. Oh, the fireworks. Bloody amateur fireworks, too. Amateur fireworks that drive my dogs crazy. Crazy.
As soon as the sun sets, the fireworks start with the popping and the banging and the whistling and the high-pitched whining and then - worse - the barking.
Oh, the barking.
I've tried everything - shushing the dogs; pretending the fireworks aren't happening; feeding them so that they associate the fireworks with good things; I even took Campulance's advice and took them out into the back garden and oohed and aahed at the pretty lights bursting in air, lying for their sakes, so that they could see that I wasn't afraid and that they needn't be afraid. Pshaw! Nothing worked.
I've given up now and am letting them run in and out of the back door, bark alternately at the sky and the skylight and shiver and quiver in fear, as they like. It's nearly midnight now and the fireworks will ease and, hopefully, end soon. They'll forget about the noises and the bad exploding lights, but I'll know it's coming next year.
I'm no fool, I have a plan. Next year, they'll have these to cover their ears.
Next year I'll remember the 5th of November and the three of us will Keep Calm and Carry On.