The Ornamental Cannon

I used to think that meteor showers were glorious occurrences,
that is, until a comet dropped from the sky and blinded my dog.
What happened was, we were walking through Tecumseh Park
when a fireball ricocheted off the barrel of an ornamental cannon.
All at once, three-fifths of the detonated rock illuminated the
Thames riverbed in a shower of red and white sparks, while two-
fifths of the remainder headed straight for my unprotected calves.
Then I felt a slack on the leash, and I realized that my dog had
heroically heaved his body between my legs and the meteorite.
The local ambulance crew appeared on the scene almost at once.
As it happened, they were speeding toward the park with such
haste that they rebounded off the barrel of a vandalized slide.
"I'm fine, fine," shouted my dog. "I can still smell goddamn it!"
Despite his protests, he was rushed to the local hospital where
I dutifully sat by his bedside, describing every inch of his dimly
lit room, until the needles and the sleeping came. At daybreak,
an eager reporter from The Daily Procter came by to interview
the heroic blind dog that had selflessly saved his master's legs.
But to the reporter's dismay, my dog denied the entire glorious
occurrence. "Well, what about the witnesses?" asked the reporter.
"Bark," said my dog, with a dismissive flick of his paw. "People
will remember what they want to remember." "But what about
the ornamental cannon," asked the reporter, "it bears the marks
of an explosion." "Weapons will bear what they want to bear,"
said my dog. "Besides," he added. "I wasn't even in Chatham
last night. I was holding defensive positions with the Shawnee."
In front of the dubious reporter, my blind dog continued to drone
on and on about his role in the War of 1812. "General Procter
had retreated up the Thames with such haste," said my dog.
"That he'd left more than half of his men and supplies behind
with Tecumseh's last chance at honour." "So," said the reporter
who's eyes rolled like looping meteorites, "were you very scared?"
"No," said my dog, "my job was to fetch the scattered supplies
from the river. Our last remaining cannon could not longer fire,
and the enemy knew it. Their artillery thrashed at the Thames
until the shoreline resembled a pot of boiling water." Then my dog
turned his head away from the reporter, and I knew that he had
just shared everything he cared to. "This interview is over," said
the reporter, and he left the room in something of a huff. My dog
sniffed the air and said, "Good, he's gone." We sat alone for a while,
and I asked him, "So, were you really in that War? Or were you
out walking with me, saving me from the ornamental cannon?"
My dog turned his bandaged eyes towards me, "Victims will
explain what they want to explain," he said. Then as a heavy rain
thrashed against the hospital window, I rested a reassuring hand
upon my dog's unsuspecting paw. "I get it," I said. "Sometimes,
I find it very scary to tell people how much I love them, too."