Not Pause. Paws.

Dog Anxiety During Fireworks: A Rhythm Both of Us Can’t Escape

The Rhythm of Panic

Dog anxiety during fireworks has a rhythm of its own.
The thumping sinus rhythm in my body.
Heartburn.
A warning siren.
A rhythm I can’t dance to—sinus pounding, chest burning.

And then, as if my body wasn’t loud enough,
the firecrackers split the night.

This is what dog anxiety during fireworks really looks like—
a creature searching for safety,
and a human trying to lend her breath as shelter.

Zoe’s Unraveling

Zoe unravels beside me.
Dog anxiety during fireworks isn’t new,
but still, every spark tears her calm apart.
Her panic mirrors mine—
both of us raw, both of us frayed.

I knew the darkness would come.
But I didn’t expect it to arrive like this:
with her pressing closer,
demanding comfort,
demanding I hold her together.

Long Walks, No Pauses

We walked long, and still she resents every pause.
She hates when I greet other dogs.
Because the pause, in her world, is hers.
I don’t get to rest.
I don’t get to share myself.

Instead of adapting, she unravels more.
Noise sensitivity in dogs is merciless—
every sound slices her nerves raw.
And yet, she claws her way to being heard.

The Double Leash of Overstimulation

Here’s the truth no one tells you:
sometimes I need the cocoon as much as she does.
Sometimes the only way to hold her fully
is to first stop myself from breaking.

Because if I can’t soften my own edges,
how the hell do I soften hers?

Overstimulation is a double leash.
It tugs her, it tugs me.
An anxious dog at night,
an anxious body inside mine.
Neither of us escapes the noise.

The Final Press of Paws

Tough heart.
Cluttered heart.
Pressing mind.

And then—her claws on my skin.

Not pause.
(Paws.)

P.S. Out of the five “precious” beds she’s clawed to death, the purple one now serves as her third-night throne. And this humble cloth? Her royal daylight spread.