Fear on the Fourth, disguised with more fireworks than in recent years, feeds the fear to dull the reality of growing violence here, there, everywhere? Explosions far away sound like somebody running his hand up and down the siding of the house diabolically playing a washboard for those cowering inside waiting helplessly for what comes next. Explosions much closer like thunder a second or two after the lightning strike through the roof dropping burning embers on the heads of those within. The big Chocolate Lab crouches on his bed panting for all he is worth. Loud noises aren’t comforting to dogs, even hundred and five-pound ones. Loud noises bode ill — will. Explosions aren’t for celebrating even on the Fourth. Explosions are about death and dismemberment, suffering and suffocating, losing limbs and life. Explosions aren’t about freedom and bravery no matter how many explosives are set off on the Fourth to make it seem that way. The light display is a spectacular obscenity of our fascination and glorification of the brutality and the utter banality that resides within our hearts that allows for and bows down before the golden calf of war. And all because we are all so, so scared, scared of our very own shadows. We don’t understand that, but dogs, apparently, do.