Dear Diary,
It’s the Fourth of July in Huckleberry Hollow, which can only mean one thing:
Hot dogs.
Patriotically themed potato salad.
And utter devastation in the heart of my cat.
The day began with all the usual delights—Molly made flag-shaped fruit tarts, the town band played America the Beautiful at least three times (in three different keys), and someone brought an inflatable bald eagle costume that I wish I could forget.
But as dusk fell and the fireworks began, Tiger’s soul left his body.
At the first pop, he leapt straight into the air like a startled muffin, knocking over my tea, a potted begonia, and a plate of deviled eggs I wasn’t even finished with. He then bolted under the couch with such force that I feared he might reemerge in the next town over.
I attempted to coax him out with salmon treats, gentle music, and a heartfelt apology on behalf of America. He responded by growling at the windows and batting one of my flip-flops into the hallway with deep personal offense.
Eventually, I brought him into the laundry room, swaddled him in a towel like a grumpy baby, and read aloud from The Quiet Poetry of Marshlands until the noise subsided. He fell asleep eventually—still glaring, but soothed.
Honestly, I think he would secede from the country if given the opportunity. Or at least declare himself neutral territory.
Next year, we’re watching the fireworks from under the bed. I’ll bring snacks.
—Lydia
