TWOOO9

We survived New Year's Eve. It's always a question -- our survival -- since we live in a neighborhood where the event is celebrated not only with fireworks, but with guns. When I lived in a more rural area, guns were also a popular choice of celebration, but the distances between my house and my neighbor's was measured not in feet, but in miles.

Not so now. I can hit at last 9 houses from mine with a hurled rock, if I so chose to and my propulsion capabilities are nothing compared to the guns brought out on New Year's Eve. The guns, though, aren't my biggest worry. It's the sound. Loud, explosive, cracking, whistling, and booming -- it is the dog who bares the brunt of celebration. So we take necessary precautions.

First, we exercised him more than usual yesterday. After long walks and a few play times (fetch, chase, tug of war) we went out one more time last night for a short walk and a romp with Monty, his best dog friend. By the time we got home, he crashed under our outstretched legs as we watched Amelie and drank a celebratory Mexican hot chocolate. By 9 o' clock, we all went to bed and crossed our fingers that midnight would be short and relatively uneventful.

Surprisingly, I was the one who woke at midnight to the sound of distance fireworks. I waited, expecting to hear the neighbors at the end of the block igniting their arsenal, but before long I fell back to sleep. The dog slept. Ann slept. And even I slept.

Until 1:30 when a "drive by fireworks" attack motored and exploded down the street. The dog raced off the bed in a fit of barking and I shuffled off to the bathroom for my nightly visit. But five minutes later, the fireworks faded into the distance and we were back to sleep again. Until 2:30, but again, only one or two bangs, a few barks, and finally we were asleep for the rest of the night.

Now, Rubin sleeps curled on his bed in the study, we're still in our pajamas, and rain dampens the already soggy streets. Oddly, all of this feels like a good omen for the coming new year.