A scene in Episode 7 of the Icelandic crime drama Trapped might throw some light on the reason why dog owners hate July 4th fireworks so much.

In the scene, police agents led by Trausti Einarssson (Björn Hlynur Haraldsson), the chief of the Reykjavik Bureau of Investigation, finally arrive at a remote Icelandic town to solve the murder of a man whose head, arms, and legs are missing. His torso was dragged out of the cold sea by local fishermen. The whole snowy town is on edge. Who could have done such a thing? So brutal. So evil. So un-Icelandic. The people want answers now. The professionals are on the case. 

They soon have a suspect: Sigurður Gudmundsson (Þorsteinn Bachmann), the harbormaster. They rush to his house, knock on his door, and his wife, Aldís Grímsdóttir (Steinunn Ólína Þorsteinsdóttir), answers it. Next to her is a dog. The chief immediately notices the puzzled animal, an Icelandic Sheepdog, drops to his knees, and pets it with great affection. Upon reaching satisfaction, the police chief stands, abruptly changes his expression from affection to coldness (even hostility), and explains the purpose of his visit. The team must search the house for potential evidence. Why? Because Þorsteinn's husband stole the victim's stabbed stump from the refrigerated section of a fish factory. That's the scene. As for the crime drama as a whole, it deserves a B+. 

In the moment just described (the way the cop has nothing but love for the dog and nothing but contempt for its human), might we not surmise a root for the common complaint that the infernal racket of illegal July 4th fireworks distresses dogs? What accounts for the popularity of this appeal?

Everyone already knows that climate change has increased the danger of fireworks. Indeed, even here in liberal Columbia City—we didn't fall into the conservative trap like the rest of our supposedly liberal city—the brazenness of exploding the damn things can only be heard as a loud "Fuck You!" to the fact of global warming. Americans on Independence Day: "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! We don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn! Burn motherfucker, burn!" But what do you often find in chat groups? Little about the environment; a lot about freaked-out dogs. 

Think of the chief of police, the Icelandic Sheepdog, and the human. The furry animal is clearly innocent of everything; the big-brained, bipedal animal is clearly guilty of everything. But the innocence of the former has to do with its unfallenness. This animal is still a member of paradise. It has no knowledge, in the biblical sense. The latter, not so. She, like the rest of her kind, is forever cursed for eating the fruit of knowledge.

It is here, in the animal's ignorance, that we find the power of the dog owner's condemnation of fireworks. The noise is fine for humans—we are all fallen; but for dogs, it is a living nightmare. Why all of this banging and flashing all of a sudden? What's going on out there? Where can I hide from it? Under the bed? Behind the couch? In a closet? In the basement? There's nowhere to hide, poor animal. And we can explain none of this manmade madness to you. And it goes on all night. Goes on as if it's the end of the world. Always on the fourth of July. The curse of the cursed animal.