Of Wolf and Sam (Uncle)

The body-breaking transformation from human into werewolf is commonly thought of as occurring during a full moon, but in my experience, it always happens around the Fourth of July.

I should be more clear though. It is less a werewolf that I morph into, more of a dog. And, when this transformation takes place, I have considerable guilt over it when I think of the American people.

I’ve only had one dog who absolutely lost it during thunderstorms. But I hear it’s fairly common among dogs. He would have anxiety attacks, so the vet would say. Daegan would go so far as to scratch holes in the drywall of a certain bathroom wall as if he was trying to escape from the thunder. I’ve never taken this course of action, but when the fireworks start going off in the distance in the days leading up to the Fourth, my mind races, my senses crank up to ten, and a knot makes a home of my stomach. I have PTSD, so the doctors say.

I have anxiety too—and panic disorder and a whole list of other mental issues. But the canine characterization that happens around the Fourth is mostly tied to the PTSD. I say “around” the Fourth. If I watch a fireworks show on Independence Day, my mind is primed for it. I know it’s coming. I’m anticipating the show. And I probably enjoy it as much as the next person. But the fireworks that are set off before the Fourth are a different story.

Sitting at home watching a movie with my wife last night was a nice, comfortable evening. (Actually, I take that back. She picked a terrible movie to watch. The evening wasn’t all rainbows and lollies.) Then without warning, I’m ripped away from my comfort and security in an instant. A sinking feeling runs from my solar plexus to my pelvis, and I’m made hyper-aware of everything other than the awful movie. Immediately following the perturbation of my well-being, I realize that the distant (or not-so-distant) pops and bangs are but a measure of the delight and celebration taking place in the neighborhood. I settle back in and apologize to my wife because I know my reaction is distracting. To which, she apologizes back to me.

Now, I know to expect this sort of thing at least a couple of days before the holiday. But it doesn’t seem to matter. Even after several blasts, I’m still caught off guard as the eeriness of sound pulls me from my complacency. If it is a concussive thump, or even worse, that distinctive whistling preceding a blast, I can hardly contain myself. The biggest bangs, thankfully, are generally reserved for the end of the night as one last big hurrah for the evening. At this point, listening to the repeated explosions one after the other in close succession, a weight lifts off my chest. I know it’s almost over. Sure, there may be a few late stragglers afterwards, but the end is in sight.

As I struggle with this, I can’t help but think about these people enjoying themselves, celebrating the holiday. I don’t have any ill feelings toward anyone for this, but I do feel victimized for some reason. They have no idea that their fun is causing my pain, yet somehow, I feel I’m being bullied. And although no one knows how I feel (unless you’re unfortunate enough to read this), I feel a deeply ingrained guilt because of it. Who am I to be discomforted for other people celebrating the birth of our nation? How shameful.

They make Thundershirts for pets. I hear that they work, but I never got a chance to try it for Daegan. I’m not sure if there is some sort of apparel I could don that would keep me from turning into a dog and howling out in panic around the Fourth. But I do know this. I can wrap myself in the love of my wife. It doesn’t prevent it from happening in the first place, but it does protect me.