The dog barks at fireworks. He barks at the firework. He’ll growl as the firework is being lit out on the barge, keeping a steady line of sight as it goes up, letting lose a fulmination of barks on that firework blowing up in the sky. Noticing the fire in his eyes, you realize that to him, this life form above is coming for all of you, and for a moment you see it that way too. But this fades, and you tell him that’s enough barking.
The barking won’t stop just because you’re inside. You can put him in a room. He’ll still bark. He’ll find the firework-facing window and start barking at the sentient being outside in the sky. You want to brace yourselves for grand finales.
If you went to battle with the dog, he’d bark at the guns and cannons and rockets and bombs. You’d be running through the field trying not to die, and he’d be barking senselessly as if all that mattered were barking. The righteousness in his denunciation of the whole affair would obviously not be lost on you. But what could you do?
You could be at Gettysburg loading a musket. The dog would spot a guy doing the same thing over yonder, and he’d growl, which would be useful I suppose. But you’d be like, “Yeah, I know,” steadily going about preparing your weapon. “Yeah, I get it. Would you please!” And sure enough, as soon as the gunpowder would start popping, the dog would start barking. Maybe he’d even give you a side-eye, kind of barking at your gun, letting you know he’s not sure if that’s OK. A few barks by accident, I guess. But I suppose he’d get the hang of it and start barking only at the other guy. You would hope.
You could be on the western front with some pretty gnarly things happening around you, and the dog would be barking at it all — even under the gas mask. Telling him to stop barking over and over again would slow you down, but he’d never stop. He’d just side-eye you while barking, sensing he might be bothering you, but he couldn’t help it. And you’d be like that too, not being able to help constantly yelling, “Stop doing that. Just stop. That’s enough,” while you’re getting pummeled. Knowing full well he’d rather be barking through shrapnel than be home alone, you’d stop to do him favors, like crouching in the field to give him water from the canteen so he wouldn’t get horse, so he could get back to barking. What a guy.
You could be on deck in the Persian Gulf launching scuds. The dog would be right beside you with a helmet, barking at scuds, growling as they were getting loaded, but barking at them flying away. And you’d have to yell at him to stop barking while you were launching. You’d have to take off your earphones so you could hear yourself yelling. But eventually you’d just not bother looking at him and just be yelling at the same time that you’re doing pretty serious launching. “Stop barking. Stop,” you’d learn to yell while launching. And you might have to stop what you were doing from time to time and catch him from jumping overboard after a scud.
You could be doing special ops with your seal team, and, well — OK never mind. That could go poorly for the dog.
You could be in a fighter jet. You could be in a tank. You could be on a rooftop or bell tower. Bell towers would be a pain in the ass if you think about it. But if you were deep in a mountain in some lab that required the highest level of clearance, in front of a screen punching keys, he’d be sound asleep on his bed. Maybe he’d be snoring or dreaming about muskets, occasionally yelping in his sleep. After getting the go-ahead to push your button while looking at a far off place your drone is filming, between sips of coffee, you might look at him while he’s snoring and say, “Shh,” or maybe simply smile and sip coffee if you want to let sleeping dogs lie.
But where were we? Oh yeah, fireworks. The dog barks at fireworks.