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Creek Running North
July 05, 2003
Pinole's fireworks display went on as scheduled last night, with amateur help from a few local teenagers. We watched a few minutes from our front yard, the large bursts clear and brilliant not a mile away over the bay.
And Zeke slept through it.
He did wake for one large blast, an M-80 or something of similar kilotonnage set off a block away. And so we went through a few minutes of our usual 7/4 evening routine — the trembling, the pawing at our legs when our reassuring affection slackened, the nose stuck into various conjunctions of ramified body parts. Then he relaxed, breathing heavily for a few more minutes, and then fell back asleep while Beirut Lite still raged outside.
I have been taking his loss of hearing rather harder than he has, what with its Deeper Meaning of Things Impending and all. There are certain things that are inevitable with a 12-year-old dog. But that's some silver lining: being able to trade ten hours of terror for half an hour of moderate fear and 9.5 of boredom in front of the television.
We still have mornings. Zeke is still his old puppy self for about an hour each day, clear and brilliant bursts of doggy energy expending themselves in our backyard, chasing imaginary rabbits and bristling back hair against marauding squirrels. We still have our walks each day, and he still strains against the leash when a cat hoves into view. Here and now, boy; here and now.