Time for night terrors – again

Range weighs 30kg and doesn’t fit under the coffee table, on my lap or beneath the bed.

For the past few nights, my dog has attempted to do all three of these things and, when he fails, tries again. He tries with his eyes rolling in terror; whimpering, shaking and panting like he’s run for miles.

And the other night he did run, bolting across the road, his impeccable recall lost in the panic. Brakes shrieked, I screamed, Range ran, and all the while the night lit up in horror.

It’s an awful irony that after a decade of fearless farm life, Range is so petrified of fireworks. There isn’t much that bothers him, cantankerous cattle included, and daily I witness his bravery.

In the month he’s been with me sheepherding has been replaced with toddlerwrangling, he’s conquered the cat and staunchly stared down Shayde, our mutual dog-park nemesis. Not Shayde’s dog though, Range happily plays with him.

Range has also handled admirably the move to sleeping indoors, a doubling of his once-daily meal and the befriending of staff at our local shop. Those good sorts carry dog treats and this old fellow is a particularly quick learner.

Really, though, my point is that Range has just been plodding about the place, doing very little, and lapping up all the joys that entails.

That, of course, is the point of his retirement. This new life is meant to be the reward for 10 years of hard slog and a rest for whatever ones remain.

Now, come nightfall, I worry it’ll kill him. While this is yet another column about why fireworks must be banned, there’s actually nothing new to say on the topic.

Yes, a recent survey found the majority of New Zealanders want a ban on recreational use of the things, but 14 years ago another poll found pretty much the same.

Also old news is that while the SPCA, local councils, police and other agencies are among that ban-supporting majority, pleas to government continue to go ignored. Even so, The Warehouse stopped selling fireworks two years ago and neither Wellington, Auckland nor Christchurch held public displays this year. But here I am banging on about the same old argument prompted by the same old stuff: animals get scared, some get hurt, people get injured and something burns. Petitions are ignored and stockpiling means we’ll suffer until the new year.

So monotonous is this annual carnage that the only things duller are the arguments against a ban, though these typically boil down to the same old thing as well.

“It’s PC gone mad!,” wail the pyromaniacs, occasionally muttering something about culture, though always accusing us killjoys of trying to ruin their fun. Which, to be fair, we are.

Because in just the past few days, their fun has seen at least one person injured at a public display, umpteen call-outs by Fire and Emergency NZ and various properties and possessions set ablaze.

Earlier this year, a billionaire’s fun in Central Otago resulted in a halfhectare fire and an all-night effort by firefighters; last year, someone else’s fun caused the evacuation of 130 people in Canterbury and the destruction of 160 forest hectares.

In the past four years, that fun has cost the country almost $3 million in 1376 fireworks-related injury claims. Children aged 10 and under are the victims of onequarter of that fun, by the way.

Still, that’s all old news and for me, the only new thing in the argument is Range. Even so, he’s old too.

And for anyone whose fun really comes from seeing skies lit up with explosions, rockets, terror, then right now you’re spoilt for choice. Turn on the television. Ghouls.