I Am Hugo

How my hooman mother hid me from the fireworks apocalypse

A close-up black-and-white photo of Hugo the Border Collie lying safely on the hotel bed at Scandic Stavanger Airport. His calm expression reflects the comfort of staying at a dog-friendly airport hotel during New Year’s Eve fireworks.

My name is Hugo, and I have a simple philosophy:
If the sky is exploding, we evacuate.

Humans don’t seem to agree.
Every December 31st, they gather outside to celebrate what I can only assume is the beginning of a slow apocalypse.

Fortunately, my hooman mother is smarter than the rest.
Last night, she decided we would escape —
to an airport hotel of all places,
the one corner of Norway where even humans aren’t allowed to make the sky boom.

Of course, Hugo doesn’t actually narrate his life like this.

But he feels it — every boom, every tremor, every December 31st that asks too much of his little nervous system.

And that’s why, as we walked toward the hotel reception, he was unusually quiet.

Not anxious yet.

Not trembling yet.

Just watching me with those round, serious eyes —

eyes that say,

“Are we safe now, Mum?”

I looked down at him and whispered,

“Yes, baby. This year, we’re doing it differently”.

The Escape— The Walk to Reception

Me and Hugo parked outside the Scandic Hotel by Sola Airport — our chosen refuge for dogs who think fireworks are the end of the world. There were more cars than I expected, and Hugo was already slightly stressed, staring at those four-wheeled creatures like they were giant, unpredictable animals.

Honestly, I sometimes think he believes cars are fast-running beasts that ought to be herded back into formation.

We crossed the street quickly and walked toward the lobby, Hugo trotting close beside me, scanning everything. The automatic doors opened with a soft whoosh, and he looked around the reception area as if taking inventory of potential threats, potential treats, and potential escape routes.

When I stepped up to check us in, he positioned himself right next to me — not leaning, not panicking, just… guarding.

Every time a human walked near us, Hugo would shift his stance, lift his head, and quietly watch them. No barking. No growling. Just that vigilant Border Collie face that says:

“I don’t know who you are, but I’m monitoring your intentions.”

Was he calm? Not exactly.

My Border Collie likes to play security officer. I suspect it’s part of his unspoken job description — something he and Lyra, my German Shepherd, agreed upon behind my back.

Lyra wasn’t with us that night.

She doesn’t require an escape plan for New Year’s Eve. She meets the season head-on. I’m not saying she enjoys fireworks, but she sure doesn’t tremble through them.

If she could speak, she’d probably shrug and say:

“Well, if you can’t beat humans and their fireworks obsession… then join them.”

That’s Lyra.

But Hugo?

He isn’t built for that level of chaos.

A warm black-and-white portrait of April Joy Alfarnes hugging her Border Collie, Hugo, inside a room at Scandic Hotel near Stavanger Airport. The image captures their quiet bond and the comfort of choosing a dog-friendly airport hotel to escape New Year’s Eve fireworks.

Unless the chaos involves collecting hugs from strangers, he’s not interested in participating.

Which is exactly why we needed a refuge — a quiet place far from explosions, a sanctuary from what feels to him like a fireworks apocalypse.

And the airport hotel, strange as it sounds, was the safest place I could think of.

The Room — The Night Itself

A peaceful monochrome scene at Scandic Stavanger Airport Hotel: Hugo sleeps calmly on the bed while a small table displays wine, cheese, and crackers — a quiet New Year’s Eve refuge for dogs sensitive to fireworks.

The moment we stepped into the room, Hugo paused — almost dramatically — as if the silence itself greeted him first. Scandic’s airport rooms aren’t luxurious, but they’re designed with that classic Scandinavian calm: light wooden floors, clean lines, soft grey curtains that swallow daylight, and a bed dressed in crisp white sheets with a teal throw folded neatly at the end.

But what mattered most wasn’t the décor.

It was the quiet — the sudden, complete, almost shocking quiet.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the outside world dissolved. No cars. No echoes. No strange hallway noises. Just a soft, temperature-perfect stillness.

Hugo felt it instantly.

His tail, which had been negotiating between “slightly stressed” and “borderline dramatic,” relaxed into a gentle sway. He walked in with purpose, nose to the floor, inspecting the room like a canine detective: the bedside table, the base of the bed frame, the corners, the warm wooden floor, even the bold red armchair by the window.

Meanwhile, I peeked into the bathroom — basic, functional, exactly what a one-night hideout needs. I filled Hugo’s travel bowl, and he drank like a tired traveller finally arriving somewhere safe.

Then, without hesitation, he followed me back to the bed and jumped onto it like he owned the place.

Seriously?

I was sitting on the supportive little chair, minding my own business, and this dog — this highly sensitive Border Collie — chose the hotel mattress like it was a personal throne.

The wooden floor? Not good enough.

His inner monologue was probably something like:

“Mother, I’ve survived emotional turbulence. I deserve this mattress.”

And there he settled, sinking into the blanket, eyes soft, breathing steady — the first real sign that this New Year’s Eve might actually be peaceful for him.

Only then did my own shoulders drop.

Only then did I feel my body exhale.

We checked in early, and by 19:00 my stomach reminded me that I had packed a little survival kit: crackers, cheese, and a small bottle of wine. I set up Netflix on my laptop, dimmed the lights, and finally — finally — allowed myself to enjoy the stillness.

Hugo slept.

I snacked and watched something meaningless.

The room held us both like a soft pause between years.

For once, December 31st wasn’t about fireworks.

It was about quiet bravery — his and mine.

The Reflection — Why This Night Mattered

A serene black-and-white photo of Hugo resting deeply under hotel blankets at Scandic Stavanger Airport. The soft light highlights the calm he found by staying in a dog-friendly airport hotel during New Year’s Eve fireworks.

Somewhere between Hugo settling into the hotel bed and me pouring myself a small glass of wine — not fancy, not ceremonial, just a quiet companion for the night — I realized something:

There is nothing dramatic about protecting a creature that depends on you.

And yet — let’s be honest — some people would roll their eyes at this whole thing.
They’d say, “A hotel room? For a dog? Because of fireworks?”
They’d insist the animal should “just endure it, ” that it’s “ only a couple of hours”, that “they’ll forget.”

But that argument doesn’t hold up — not morally, not emotionally, and definitely not psychologically.

Fireworks anxiety in dogs isn’t attitude.
It’s not a tantrum.
It’s not “being dramatic.”
It’s a full nervous-system event — elevated cortisol, panic responses, heart rate spikes, sensory overload.
A dog doesn’t rationalize noise.
A dog feels it.

And when you love a dog — truly love them — you don’t ask them to tolerate terror just because it’s inconvenient to intervene.

I know some people see a dog as a hobby, or an accessory, or a cute sidekick for their Instagram stories. But for me, having a dog means family — with all the responsibility that word carries.

If I were terrified of something and I asked my family to take me somewhere safe, and they replied, “You’ll live,” I would feel abandoned.
Hugo cannot voice that request.
He cannot say, “This scares me.”
He cannot advocate for his own comfort or sanity.

So I advocate for him.

And that’s why this night mattered — because in that small, quiet hotel room, I kept my promise to him.
A simple promise:
If the world gets too loud, I will make it quieter for you.

Watching him fall asleep without trembling — for once — felt like the real celebration.
Not the countdown outside.
Not the fireworks.
But this: a dog breathing calmly into a new year because someone chose to listen to the fear he couldn’t explain.

That’s what love looks like in real life.
Not loud.
Not performative.
Just protective.

If Your Dog Fears Fireworks — What Helped Us

I’m not a dog trainer or a behaviorist.
I’m just a woman who refuses to let her animals suffer in silence.
So here’s what genuinely made a difference — not as rules, but as possibilities for anyone with a sensitive, noise-anxious dog:

• Create distance from the explosions.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is remove them from the source entirely. A quiet hotel, a remote cabin, even a friend’s basement — distance calms the body faster than any trick.

• Choose a room that feels enclosed and safe.
Soft lighting, steady temperature, curtains that mute the outside world — these small things matter more than people think.

• Stay close.
You don’t need to hover or coddle. Your presence alone stabilizes their nervous system.

A black-and-white photo of Hugo sitting in the hallway of Scandic Hotel Stavanger Airport. The peaceful airport hotel environment offered him a safe, firework-free New Year’s Eve, perfect for dogs with noise anxiety.

• Give them familiar comforts.
A blanket, a toy, your scent — anything that whispers “you’re safe here.”

• Don’t minimize their fear.
Dogs aren’t being dramatic. Fireworks trigger panic responses, cortisol spikes, and sensory overload. The body remembers that, even if the calendar moves forward.

• Plan the next year early.
If something works, build a tradition around it. Dogs thrive in predictable safety.

But here’s what I learned most clearly that night:

Fireworks aren’t a celebration for everyone — especially not for the ones who trust us with their fear.

Some people wouldn’t dream of spending money on a hotel room “just because a dog doesn’t like fireworks.”
They say,
“It’s only a few hours. They’ll live.”
But Hugo isn’t “just a dog.”
He’s family.
And if family is terrified, you don’t tell them to tough it out — you take them somewhere safe.

Maybe that’s the real measure of love:
not how loudly you celebrate, but how gently you protect.

And honestly?
Between choosing the creatures who greet the world with purity…
and the humans who sometimes hide their sharpness until they bite my head off for caring this much —
I know exactly where my loyalty lies.