Fireworks, even the Sane-n-Sane kind, are illegal in our county. We're in a drought, and living in a veritable tinder box. We're barely over the choking smoke from last week. Still, I wasn't surprised to hear firecrackers going off up and down our street at 9:45 last night. I'm not one of those neighbors who gets on the phone and complains to the police about the little delinquents doing bad, bad things to celebrate the 4th of July. The cats weren't freaking out (though Max really wanted to look out the window to see what was going on) and the popping sounds ended around 10:15.
12:45 a.m., I'm drifting off to sleep, and all the sudden there's BANG! BANG! BANG! going on in the street. Not just the little lady finger fire crackers, but the giant, blow-your-fingers-off variety. No, I didn't rat them out by calling the cops, but I was annoyed beyond reason, especially when the Harley with the car-alarm-tripping pipes fired up.
With that bike starting up, I can be fairly sure who was setting off the big booms at nearly one in the morning.
Not that I'm gonna do anything about it, but there's still that evil voice in the back of my head urging me to set off flaming bags of dog poop on their front porch.
If only we weren't in a drought...