When Home Stops Feeling Safe

After six years of living with each other, Buddy and I know each other far too well. Our feelings are known to each other with just a look. He mostly trusts me , except at certain times of the year, which I am going to tell you about, and why.

We live in a village where days move slowly and predictably. Our time together follows a regular pattern. A walk in the morning, lunchtime with either me or a trusted dog walker, and in the evenings when I have to throw him balls for at least thirty minutes.

In our village there are plenty of footpaths through farms with sheep and goats, or riverside walks with ducks and geese. In normal times, he never misses chasing a rabbit or showing off his swimming skills to birds in the river. He watches, listens, waits. He has his own routines, his own rules, his preferred favourite places to walk. He is calm, observant, curious in a way that feels deliberate rather than impulsive.

No wonder he is always ready to go out. He loves the villagers, and they love him. He trusts the world because the world, for the most part, has been consistent.

But come late October, things change drastically.

He knows the time of year very well. He becomes cautious. The slightest noise makes him nervous. He hears sounds that we fail to notice. Then things get worse, and we too start noticing the fireworks. His body stiffens before his mind seems to catch up. His ears tilt, then flatten. We don’t see the happy Buddy anymore.

As the days pass, the explosions become louder and louder. They start earlier in the evening and last into late night. Even though the biggest explosions are geographically distant, they seem very close , at least for Buddy. No matter the distance or the intensity, our quiet village becomes a war-zone for him.

And this continues through the first week of November.

We have tried various strategies to help him. We take him out for walks earlier, before sunset, before the first bangs begin. At first, this seems sensible. But Buddy is clever, and clever dogs learn patterns quickly, sometimes the wrong ones.

The fireworks usually start when he is at home, somewhere between seven and ten, sometimes later. Over time, he begins to associate the house not with safety, but with what happens next. He slows when we turn back. He stops. He strikes and refuses to move. He wants to stay out, pacing, circling, anywhere but inside.

It breaks our hearts to see him like that, that home, the place meant to protect him, has become part of the problem.

Eventually, the fireworks start anyway. When they do, Buddy’s fear escalates rapidly. His body shakes in a way that is impossible to soothe. He pants, searches, presses himself into narrow corners and impossible spaces, trying to become smaller than he is. He hides, but hiding does not help, because the sound is everywhere.

We try what we can. Music, played loudly but calmly, it makes no difference. Medication too barely touches the edges of his panic. Toys that usually hold his attention mean nothing. Food, which he would never normally refuse, is ignored entirely.

This year, on fireworks night, Buddy did not eat for more than forty-eight hours. You read that right, more than 48 hours.

He did not drink either. He would not play. He would not settle. He watched us constantly, but not with trust, more with confusion, as if we had somehow allowed this to happen, or worse, caused it. It is hard to describe what it feels like when a dog who normally relies on you stops believing you can keep them safe.

That loss of trust is the hardest part.

You can see it in the way he avoids eye contact, in the way his body remains coiled even when the house is quiet again. You can see it when he chooses a hiding place and stays there long after the sounds have stopped, as if he does not believe the danger is really gone.

When fireworks season finally ends, Buddy slowly returns to himself. His appetite comes back. His curiosity resurfaces. He begins to ask for walks again, to watch the birds, to notice the rabbits. But something has shifted. He listens more carefully now. Sudden noises linger longer in his body than they used to.

We inspect the village again through his eyes, aware of how fragile his sense of safety can be, how easily the world can change without warning.

People often talk about fireworks as a single night, an event to endure. For Buddy, it is weeks of living in anticipation of fear, weeks of learning that the familiar can suddenly become hostile.

When things are quiet again, we are grateful — not because the problem is solved, but because we have our dog back, mostly intact. And we carry that knowledge forward, knowing that next year, when the days shorten and the evenings grow loud again, Buddy will remember.

He always does.

If your dog has found a way through fireworks season with less fear, or if you’ve discovered something that genuinely helped, I’d be grateful to hear it.