FOR BAILEY,by Barb Goffman
At 105 pounds, Bailey shouldn’t be a lap dog. But every time another round of fireworks went off, she nestled tighter in my lap, whimpering while I stroked her thick black fur and told her she’d be fine, that the scary noises from the sky would stop soon.
Boy, I hated lying to my dog. For the fifth night in a row, it felt like we were living in a war zone with a steady drum of mortar fire. It started every year at Memorial Day and happened sporadically throughout the summer, but the week leading up to Independence Day—this week—was always the worst. People throughout my neighborhood set off fireworks as soon as it got dark. It went on for hours.
“I resent that, Mr. Studebaker. I’m just as much an American as you are.” My mom was on the phone, trying to reason
