Baby I’m A Firework

I love being a pet owner. It’s something – aside from a goldfish won at a fair and some sea monkeys – that I never got to experience as a child.

And now, obviously, I have the scourge of people-trying-to-do-things-particularly-if-it-involves-technology. In other words, Peppa.

I dislike being a pet owner at this time of year, though.

Few things scare an animal more than fireworks, and this particular period is a nightmare. It’s easy to plan ahead and prevent her going out around the main nights – bonfire night and its associated weekend. But it’s all the rogue nights that are the issue.

You think you’re clear and then someone in an adjacent street decides to have a professional level display and you’re scouring the house to confirm a skitish cat is in there somewhere before sealing up the cat flap.

Otherwise you’re outside, shouting in a doorsay hoping a streak of black and white will rush past and head in. All the while hoping that you didn’t miss her when you searched the house and that your calling isn’t luring her into the garden.

And that’s just our cat.

I’ve spent the last few nights hoping that adorable fluff-ball Trixie has been let in her house while the fireworks have been banging. I saw her today and she seemed fine – definitely not lost her appetite anyway – so I think she’s been inside. If not then she should have been and feel guilty for not checking.

Still, it’s the seventh of November tomorrow. They’re bound to have stopped by then…. right?