An Open Letter to America, From Your Dog

Dear America,

I understand this is a big year for you.

Two hundred and fifty years is impressive. I say that with absolutely no understanding of time beyond breakfast, dinner, walks, naps, and the moment someone opens a cheese wrapper three rooms away.

Still, I can tell the humans are excited. The flags are out. The coolers are being packed. Somebody is already talking about fireworks. There are hot dogs involved, which is the part of the celebration I fully support. I am patriotic in the presence of meat.

But there is something I need to say on behalf of dogs everywhere.

We do not understand the Fourth of July.

We do not understand that the loud booms are supposed to be festive. We do not understand that the sky flashing and cracking open is part of a national birthday party. We do not understand why people are standing in yards cheering while every instinct we have is telling us to hide under the bed, shake behind the couch, or try to escape through a door that was very much closed five seconds ago.

Humans know the fireworks will end.

Dogs do not.

That is the part I wish more people remembered.

To us, fireworks sound like danger. Big danger. Sudden danger. The kind of danger that makes our hearts race, our paws sweat, our bodies tremble, and our brains stop listening to anything except the ancient internal alarm bell that says run.

And when a scared dog runs, bad things happen.

Dogs slip out of collars. Dogs bolt through open doors. Dogs dig under fences. Dogs jump gates they have never jumped before and may never jump again. Dogs who normally come when called suddenly do not recognize their own name because fear has taken the wheel and is driving like a lunatic.

This does not make us dramatic.

It makes us dogs.

I know the Fourth of July is fun. I know America’s 250th birthday deserves a party. I know there will be cookouts, parades, family gatherings, music, pool floats, sparklers, and that one neighbor who thinks he is personally responsible for recreating the finale at Disney World from the alley.

Celebrate. Truly.

Just make a plan for the dog before the noise starts.

Bring us inside early. Not when the first boom hits and everyone suddenly remembers we exist. Early. Before dark. Before the kids start running in and out. Before the cooler has been opened twelve times and nobody knows where the gate key went.

Put us somewhere safe and familiar. A bedroom. A basement. A crate if we like our crate. A quiet corner with our bed, water, a blanket, and maybe a toy we have already destroyed but still consider emotionally significant.

Close the windows. Pull the curtains. Turn on the television, a fan, music, or white noise. It does not have to be fancy. Dogs are not asking for a spa retreat. We are asking for the house not to sound like the Battle of Gettysburg with lawn chairs.

Make sure our collars fit. Make sure our tags are current. If we are microchipped, make sure the information is updated. This is one of those boring little tasks that does not feel important until it is the only thing standing between a lost dog and a very bad night.

And please, for the love of every tennis ball that has ever rolled under a couch, do not take us to the fireworks.

I know you think we want to go because we love being with you. We do love being with you. Obsessively. Embarrassingly. With a level of loyalty that frankly should make humans try harder. But crowded parks, strange smells, screaming kids, folding chairs, traffic, and fireworks overhead are a lot for a dog. Even a good dog. Even a calm dog. Even the dog who “does fine with everything.”

Leave us home.

We will survive the insult.

Actually, we will probably prefer it.

Keep fireworks away from us too. Do not let us sniff them, chase them, chew them, or investigate the sad little cardboard tubes left in the yard the next morning. Dogs are curious, and our judgment around objects on the ground is historically poor. We eat socks. Let’s not pretend we are making great choices.

If your dog gets very anxious, talk to your veterinarian before the holiday. Not during the fireworks. Not while the dog is wedged behind the toilet and Uncle Randy is asking if Benadryl works on “big ones.” Before. Some dogs need more help, and there is nothing wrong with that.

Fear is not a behavior problem. It is fear.

Stay calm with us. Sit nearby if you can. Let us hide if we need to hide. Do not drag us out to “show us it’s okay.” Do not scold us for shaking, barking, panting, pacing, or trying to become one with the laundry basket. We are doing our best with a holiday that makes no sense to us.

You can comfort a scared dog.

You should comfort a scared dog.

We are not learning to be more afraid because you are kind to us. We are learning that our person is still our person when the world gets loud.

That matters.

So, America, happy 250th birthday.

Fly the flag. Fire up the grill. Eat the hot dog. Watch the fireworks. Tell the stories. Take the pictures. Sit outside with your people and appreciate whatever piece of this country feels like home to you.

Just remember the dogs inside.

We will be waiting in the safest spot we can find, listening to the strange sounds, trusting you to know what they mean, and hoping you remembered to save us a bite of something from the cookout.

Preferably hot dog.

No onion.

Sincerely,

Your Dog

From all of us at Coal Valley Bun Works, have a safe and happy Fourth of July. Feed your people. Protect your pets. And for heaven’s sake, latch the gate.