July 3

This is Peanut reporting from the frontlines of Firework Season, also known as the week leading up to the 4th of July. Chewy and I have taken up our morning positions on the rug in the reading room. He’s got his serious face on, staring into the distance like he’s contemplating the meaning of life—or at least wondering if the noise last night was the end of the world. I’m staying close. We need solidarity in times like these.

People have been setting off fireworks for a whole week already. WHY. What exactly are they celebrating? The sudden and unprovoked boom of existential dread?

Chewy and I wonder what fresh hell awaits us tonight. Will it be the crackling ones that sound like something’s exploding in the yard? Or the high-pitched screamers that make me dive under the bed so fast I forget where my tail is? The humans seem oblivious. They eat snacks and talk and laugh like we’re not currently dealing with the emotional aftermath of a sky-based apocalypse.

On the bright side, the rug is soft, and the morning sun makes a little warm patch right where I like to stretch my legs. Books line the wall, and it smells like the garden Emma was working in yesterday—earthy and calming. This little pocket of peace is what gets me through the madness.

Anyway, I’m sticking close to Chewy today. He’s been through a lot lately—cone, ear business, mud episodes—and I think we both just want a normal, quiet day.

Wish us luck. And send treats.
Love,
Peanut 🐾

P.S. If anyone figures out how to make fireworks illegal in all dimensions, I will personally dig them a thousand gratitude holes in the backyard.