Though illegal in Nevada, it began about an hour after sundown, with a few “Lady Finger” firecrackers. The pop-pop-pop was slight and didn’t bother the dogs at all.
Soon the M-80’s burst onto the scene, literally. The multiple loud concussions caused the animals to nervously pace up and down the hallway.
Then it grew quite, save for the pop-pop-pop of another round of “Lady Fingers,” and a few ‘whistlers’ lit off somewhere in the distance. They were suddenly drowned out by the massive crescendo of a firework display blasting away at the Western evening sky.
Red, green, yellow, orange and white.
The dogs scrambled under our bed for safety, shaken by the “rockets red-glare,’ in the near-distance. I stepped out on the front porch to watch the show, hoping no wildfire would come of it and that the sheriff’s office might catch the culprits.
As I observed the noise-filled illuminations, my pulse quickened, my breathing grew shallow and rapid and sweat developed on my forehead and the palms of my hands. PTSD.
Then I heard the panicked scrambling of paw pads and claws raking the asphalt, drawing closer from where the fireworks lit up the night. Three canine shapes came dashing headlong around the corner and down our street, heads low, bushy tails tucked between their hind legs.
Only after they sprinted by, blending into the darkness at the east end of our street, did I realize the trio were a small pack of coyotes, scared witless, speeding for safety from the aerial blasts and bright lights.