Yup, it was a day for tons of celebrations, and yup, millions across the country answered the call to do so a few
​weekends back. 
 
Indeed, it was a holiday that I loved as a kid. 
 
After all, school was out and the sun stayed up for hours.  Plus, what’s not to like about grilled burgers, baked beans and homemade potato salad; dressing up in red, white and blue, and the most exciting part, getting to set off sparklers in the back yard?
 
These used to be my little girl Fourth of July memories.
 
But now that we have three dogs—Hank, Rusty and Sadie—those kinds of days, but most especially those nights, are gone.
 
In case you didn’t know, that’s because those of us who consider our dogs family have learned that the booms and flashes of fireworks mean The Season of Dread. The same is often true for cat and bird lovers, and it’s not exactly festive for the one in eight human veterans who suffer from PTSD. 
 
As a matter of record, a recent New York Times blog reports that at least 40 percent of dogs experience noise anxiety come July. The article goes on to quote sad stories of dogs who, upon experiencing fireworks, hide in places so tight they get stuck (one friend’s Rhodesian Ridgeback mix cowers behind toilet pipes, then flips out even more upon discovering that she can’t move); gnaw on door handles, and even crash through windows, literally running for miles to escape.
 
The same friend whose big girl cowers in her bathroom also once worked for animal control in another town a few hours
​from mine. 
 
“July Fourth was always bad but the day after was actually the worst,” she says.  “That’s when we got the most reports of dogs so completely freaked out that they were found running on freeways, usually far away from their homes.”  My friend adds that these were the fortunate ones, since many more were found dead by the sides of roads, victims of nocturnal hit and runs.  
 
So far, we’ve done a lot better here at the Grant homestead.  Still, it’s a trying time for humans and critters alike.  
 
It doesn’t help that all of our dogs are rescues, and that two carry significant baggage.
 
My goofball hound Hank is the lucky one, not only because he was fostered as a puppy and put into my arms at six weeks old,  but because he also spent those first months snuggling with his mom and siblings, and along the way, learned crucial doggie social skills.  Rusty is a drop-dead gorgeous Aussie shepherd, but not as blessed.  Born in a puppy mill, his first owners kept him crated nearly all of the time, and there is also evidence of him being hit and kicked. So, even on his best days, Rusty is a hot mess of nerves and anxiety. 
 
But when it comes to the Fourth of July, Sadie suffers most.
 
A majestic Antolian shepherd (think German shepherd with golden retriever ears), animal services rescued her when she was about a year old from a desert field several hours from us. For reasons we’ll never know, she and a few other dogs were abandoned for who-knows-how-long, and left to completely fend for themselves in every way. 
 
At some point, someone loved Sadie because she is protective and affectionate, but she was also 30 pounds underweight when we met.  She’s especially frightened when she hears coyotes baying, often pacing, barking nonstop and frantically running in circles.  Fireworks cause the same reaction, except more pronounced.   
 
And once Sadie becomes hysterical, the other dogs join in. 
 
But since Fourth of July fireworks aren’t going to end anytime soon—even though they’re illegal here with a hefty fine attached—what’s to be done?
 
First, given that the folks who set off these noisemakers are inconsiderate louts to begin with, and sometimes even think our dilemma is funny, we can’t ask them to stop (yes, I’ve tried).  So out of necessity, we’ve found other solutions, a mash-up of old and new, with mixed results.
 
We set the radio dial to classical music in the living room, which helped a bit. We also kept a fan running in our bedroom, creating white noise for the two dogs who sleep there.  And although we haven’t tried this (yet), other pet lovers swear by calming wraps and “thundershirts,” which work the same way that swaddling does for infants (can anyone recommend one?).
 
But ultimately, in order for anyone to get any rest, we resorted to pills.
 
Hank and Rusty got Benedryl, and it did seem to help.  They moved slower; went into a deeper sleep, and were nonresponsive to the smaller booms.  Sadie needed more of a boost, so our veterinarian prescribed Xanex, as well as the more powerful sedative Acepromazine, also called Ace, which was new to us.  We felt it necessary to use one night, but found the results negligible.  (First given to people in the 1950s as an antipsychotic, but now almost exclusively given to animals, many animal behaviorists have come to believe that Ace does nothing to calm suffering pets.  Rather, they say it makes them unable to move or exhibit any other outward indications of their fear, equivalent to a “chemical straitjacket.”  I don’t think we’re trying it again.)   
 
Then there’s Sileo, the first drug ever specifically approved by the Food and Drug Administration for canine noise aversion. An injectable, flavorless gel that’s squeezed between a dog’s cheek and gum, a single dose is about $30 and must be administered by a vet.  Given Sadie’s size, we were told she would need at least three doses.  It’s an expensive option, but one we may have to consider down the road.    
 
Amidst all of this, there’s some welcome news. 
 
This past year, the town of Collecchio, in Italy, decided that its pets are more important than the booming of fireworks.  So, the local government enacted a measure that now requires all of its citizens to use silent fireworks.  Germany has also banned fireworks near refugee shelters in order to reduce trauma, so perhaps a positive trend is emerging.
 
As for this American girl clown, I’m sad that I can’t attend any Fourth of July celebrations.  But the trade-off is so worth it that, really, it’s an option I don’t much think about anymore. 
 
After all, our sweet dogs are our kinfolk, and I love them just as fiercely as I do my daughter. 
 
And for now, all is well.  
 
At least until New Year’s Eve.
 
What do you think about dogs and fireworks, and what advice can you give this girl clown (besides moving to Collecchio)?  I look forward to your comments and stories, as well as great Fourth of July memories!   

​Most of the time, I love being a wife.
 
Of course, there’s the best benefit: I get to share my world with someone I adore, who adores me back.  And when it comes to our particular dance card, that means divvying up life with someone who’s also my biggest cheerleader, and in that role, has my back, too.
 
I’m also lucky that The Hubster steam cleans carpets; make a darn good pot of chili, and keeps my computer running smoothly.   He does lots of other stuff, too, like grocery shopping when I can’t; washing dinner dishes most nights, and feeding our three goofy dogs. 
 
He has also brought home flowers, ice cream and chocolate for no reason at all, other than to make me happy. 
 
But despite him shouldering all of these tasks—which he does (mostly) cheerfully after working very hard at a couple of day jobs—there’s still a lot to do.
 
That’s because I remain the chief cook and bottle washer. 
 
A partial list of these responsibilities includes nutritionist, interior designer, Uber driver, seamstress, hostess, housecleaner, Internet service negotiator, social secretary and activities director.  I can’t forget researcher, closet/linen/spice rack organizer, rose pruner, groundskeeper, errand runner, inventory consultant, events planner, bookkeeper and laundress.
 
So, while I wear these hats (mostly) cheerfully—and even enjoy putting on a few of them—this is why, just like my husband, I want a wife. 
 
Those of A Certain Age might be feeling some déjà vu right now, because somehow, the phrase is oddly familiar. 
 
Perhaps that’s because they’re remembering a landmark editorial titled, what else, “Why I Want a Wife.”
 
Only nine paragraphs, it was written by Judy Syfers, a stay-at-home mom, who, in a fit of frustration, penned the piece in a couple of hours.  Published in December of 1971 in the premiere issue of Ms. magazine, this little essay poked wicked fun of the traditional roles defined by conventional marriage.
 
The essay was actually heard first, when a nervous Syfers read it out loud about a year earlier at a rally in San Francisco, where she lived with her professor spouse and two young daughters.  And even though men in the audience heckled Syfers as she read, “Why I Want a Wife” had both an immediate and long term impact on millions of women
and men.   
 
Today, in fact, Syfers’ piece is required reading for many university classes, and can also be found in anthologies as an example of feminist humor and satirical prose. The work also pushed Syfers toward a life spent in social justice around the world. 
 
But if the essay was meant to actually change the way men and women take care of everyday business, it hasn’t
done much. 
 
Indeed, even though The New York Times reports that the number of women in America who are their family’s sole or primary breadwinner is now at 40 percent—a figure that has quadrupled since 1960—the time that men spend taking care of a house hasn’t altered in nearly three decades.  Breaking the numbers down further, men’s participation in household tasks topped out at 94 minutes per day in 1998.  But by 2003, it was down to 81 minutes, not much different than the 76 minutes it was in 1985. 
 
I also know that what we wives do doesn’t come cheap.   
 
As a matter of fact, www.salary.com recently released its 16th annual “Mom Salary Infographics” for both stay-at-home and working mothers.  Working 40 hours per week at a base salary of about $1,000, a typical wife’s annual income would be $48,509.  But with 52 hours of overtime added every week, that annual paycheck jumps to more than $94,000 over the initial baseline.  (Check out details here, at www.salary.com/2016-mothers-day-infographics/.) 
 
Total cost?  Sit down, since it’s $143,102.
 
That’s more cha-ching than I’ve ever seen in any for-pay job.  I’m also sure that as much as he’d like to, my husband will never be able to give me this kind of wage. 
 
I also don’t claim to have any answers as to why most husbands are allergic to brooms, dustpans and organizing kitchen drawers.  For that matter, I can’t figure out why wives who work outside the home still end up doing nearly all of the stuff in the home. 
 
I can only hope that my daughter’s generation, and the ones that come after hers, will have a more successful go at it.    
 
Meanwhile, I can still dream about having my very own wife. 
 
How about you?  Is your role as a husband or wife a traditional one?  What about all of the singletons out there?  I’d love to hear your comments and stories! 
 
P.S. Read Judy Syfers’ “Why I Want a Wife” at www.cwluherstory.org/why-i-want-a-wife.html.   Listen to the story behind the story at www.thestory.org/mediaplaylist/popup.