We burned the dog on Thursday. On accident, of course. Just a little sparkler dust that caught a hair or two- she was so oblivious she didn't even yelp.
I'm constantly surprised by this dog. Most people talk about dogs and fireworks, warning that they're an unhealthy mix. But Ripley, sweet thing, has grown up with fireworks popping in the distance every night at 9:30pm sharp- thanks Disneyland. So when fireworks exploded overhead at Newport Beach, she didn't bat an eye. She may have shivered and shook from all the new people, the other dogs, the whining and the crying, the smells and sounds of a new place at night, but bright explosions over head? No problem.
We let our sentences dangle for her, waiting until she catches on to the unasked question: "Do you want to..." She uses our shins as a springboard, jumping between us, mouth wide in that doggy smile. She loves the car and often lounges over the window one arm down the side and her head resting between the frame and the mirror. We took it one step further on Thursday and bundled her up for a basket-less bike ride. Pedestrians couldn't get enough of her, face sprouting from our neck as she leveraged herself to see where we were going out of her backpack cocoon, without a care in the world.
I took her out before bed last night and marveled at her supreme calm as Angels Stadium lit up, a cacophony of bangs and booms, and she, undisturbed, chased June beetles.
I wish she could share some of that unruffability with me. Just a scoche.