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Every civilization has one idea that makes absolutely no sense.
The Romans thought feeding Christians to lions would improve public morale. The French invented escargot. Cats decided knocking drinking glasses off tables was an acceptable hobby.
And here in Beaver County, otherwise sensible human beings looked at a peaceful summer evening and said, “You know what this needs? Several tons of explosives.”
They even gave it a cheerful name.
Boom.
As if the title weren’t enough warning.
Now, before anybody gets upset, let me make something perfectly clear. I understand that the Beaver County Boom is a beloved tradition. For more than fifteen years it’s brought thousands of people together for food, music, wrestling, children’s activities, local businesses, artisans, and one of the finest fireworks displays in America. This year’s Beaver County BOOM 250 is even bigger, celebrating America’s 250th birthday with concerts, community spirit, and a spectacular display by the legendary Zambelli Fireworks.
Humans love this sort of thing.
Dogs… have a few questions.
The first is this:
Why?
You spend the entire year teaching us not to bark loudly.
Then, once every summer, you gather beside the river to applaud explosions that can be heard in three counties.
I’m just trying to understand the rules.
This year’s festivities are especially concerning because the fireworks aren’t just coming from the usual river barge. No, apparently someone concluded one launch point wasn’t ambitious enough. So tonight they’ll be firing them from both the barge and the Rochester-Monaca Bridge.
It’s as though the humans held a committee meeting and asked, “How can we make every Labrador in western Pennsylvania simultaneously reconsider his life choices?”
Mission accomplished.
Dad and I happen to live at Bridgewater Crossings.
That sounds idyllic until you discover we’re directly across from the fireworks barge.
Not near it.
Not within walking distance of it.
Across from it.
If the Zambelli crew waves, I can practically wave back.
While thousands of happy people are spreading blankets along the riverbank waiting for Dustin Lynch, The Clarks, Squonk Opera, wrestling matches, food trucks, and enough funnel cake to keep cardiologists fully employed through Labor Day, I’ll be implementing my own carefully researched emergency preparedness plan.
Step One: Have my ears snugly wrapped in my Happy Hoodie.
If you’ve never seen one, imagine earmuffs designed by people who genuinely care about Newfoundlands.
Step Two: Retreat to my bed.
Step Three: Cuddle with Dad until civilization regains its senses.
It’s become something of an annual ritual.
Dad tells me everything’s all right.
I pretend to believe him.
Around 9:45 tonight, the sky will erupt into what humans describe as “oohs” and “aahs.”
Dogs generally describe it as, “We’re under artillery attack.”
Different perspectives.
Now, I will admit something.
The people responsible for this auditory catastrophe are impressive.
Zambelli Fireworks has been in business since 1893, when Antonio Zambelli arrived from Italy carrying little more than a notebook filled with family pyrotechnic recipes. That’s either one of the greatest immigrant success stories in American history or the opening chapter of a remarkably exciting insurance claim.
Since then they’ve produced fireworks for presidential inaugurations, papal visits, national celebrations, Disney premieres, Kentucky’s Thunder Over Louisville, enough Fourth of July celebrations to make the bald eagle itself reach for ear protection—and tonight, right outside my living room window.
They’re true artists.
Just very, very loud artists.
Which brings me to my annual public service announcement.
If you’re heading to the Boom today—and I sincerely hope you have a wonderful time—please remember that when the music stops, the last firework fades, and everyone heads home, the riverside isn’t supposed to look like raccoons hosted a tailgate party.
Take your cups.
Take your wrappers.
Take your folding chairs.
If you brought three children, please leave with the same number.
Our rivers have enough to deal with already.
As for me, today’s schedule is fairly well set.
Breakfast.
A leisurely walk before the crowds arrive.
One final inspection of the apartment to ensure all emergency cuddling facilities are operational.
Happy Hoodie securely fastened.
Dad stationed nearby.
And then we’ll wait.
As I write this, the first lawn chairs are probably already being unfolded. Somewhere, a food truck is warming up its fryer. Children are lobbying their parents for one more ride, one more lemonade, one more funnel cake. And somewhere on the Ohio River, a Zambelli crew is quietly preparing enough fireworks to make half the county grin and the other half of us look for furniture to hide under.
Happy Boom Day, everybody.
Please enjoy yourselves. Eat something unhealthy. Cheer loudly for the music. Admire the fireworks. Celebrate Beaver County.
And if you happen to notice a large black-and-white Newfoundland peeking nervously out a window at Bridgewater Crossings tonight, don’t worry.
I’m perfectly safe.
I’ll be wearing my Happy Hoodie, cuddling on the bed with Dad, and patiently waiting for the humans to finish celebrating freedom by detonating it.
