Layla’s Waiting on Snow

photo by ©vivienstock - stock.adobe.com

A cropped version of this photo can be found on the American Kennel Club website; this would be Layla minus her blue eyes.

“The Siberian Husky, a thickly coated, compact sled dog of medium size and great endurance, was developed to work in packs, pulling light loads at moderate speeds over vast frozen expanses. This northern breed is friendly, fastidious, and dignified.”

from the AKC website on Siberian Huskies

OK, the last bit about being ‘dignified’, really?

I’m beginning this blog on the last day in November, and thus far the weather in Washington feels more like September. It’s as gloomy as a day in Portland when even the demonstrators stay indoors. Layla rolls her eyes, shakes herself head to tail to be done with the rain. She glares at me like I’m supposed to produce a better one. Even a temp in the forties would be an improvement on this sorry weather, so her expression says.

Layla lives by natural time: sunup, she’s up; sundown, she’s down for dinner. In October, I tried explaining Daylight Savings Time, and she just walked away.

Layla spent last fall growing a nice, thick fur coat to make her look pounds heavier, and all she gets to show for it are dripping trees and a sodden yard. She takes twice as long to dry off with all that wool. Presently, she’s out on the porch in a husky ball on the landing, idling (sorta) until her 4 PM walk–and it’s not yet noon.

Our neighbor was talking last Saturday about a Samoyed he knew growing up, and he captured something of these artic dogs’ personalities–they don’t take life for granted. Huskies don’t; they’re intense–especially when it’s below freezing–because life just doesn’t come alive until it becomes numbingly cold.

In the right weather, Layla does twirls in the air, charges across the lawn growling and dances away laughing. No matter how brief the cold spell, she takes full advantage. I don’t have the heart to tell her how much warmer the climate has become. The first year I arrived from Miami, we had six inches of snow in October. Miami, land of the several million Cuban plantation owners in exile.

(It’s a well known fact if you add together all the country that expatriate Cubans claim Fidel stole from their families, the island would be larger than Texas, California and Alaska combined. That’s what I heard living in Miami.)

Maddie in the snow photo by William E Evans, December 2009

I took this photo of Maddie while she enjoyed a genuine snowfall afternoon–it was her favorite position while waiting on the fox to arrive across the creek. The photo was shot from the original front door of the house–before the addition.

So this morning walking Layla in the drizzle, I tried explaining how we still had the three winter months to look forward to; perhaps Wagner’s Nordic gods would bless us with some of the white stuff. It barely snowed last winter, and Layla was skeptical as she did another whole-body shake to unload the rain. Layla likes even wet leaf piles, but she goes crazy over piles of snow.

Layla is our fourth husky–and our fifth dog. All our huskies have had an internal fire to the way they meet life head-on. Maybe I’m enrapturing over huskies too much to notice it in other dogs, but huskies are not a laid-back breed. Lethargy ain’t their thing, man, as the hippies used to say.

Walking Mojo on the beach only days before he died of a brain cancer, when two miniature wiener dogs and their gossiping ladies huffed past, he still rose to the challenge. I hold nothing against wiener dogs, but Mojo did. He’d developed a general distaste of small yapping pooches early in life and never outgrew it in thirteen years. He and I both knew he was dying that fall, and we needed to take a last beach walk.

Fish Dog was going home.

I still have a clear mental picture of Mojo’s first beach run, about to turn one, when he tore past the fisherman, deftly removing one nice fish from the bait bucket and proceeded to return in triumph, bait swinging side to side, happy as a husky could be. I returned the fish to the bucket. I don’t think the fisherman ever noticed, being in a Zen moment with his rod and reel.

We learned on that first beach trip we shouldn’t let the huskies loose on the beach. Seeing this giant red wolf tearing up the sand coming on groups of beachgoers was a bit disturbing for some of them. And when Maddie was let free, she’d immediately climb the dunes into the cattails after sand crabs. All you’d see was the white tail disappearing into the high grass. Mojo was the entertainer and Maddie the scavenger.

When Molly the Rottweiler joined the pack, Mojo was thrilled. They’d sleep hip to butt on the back seat for the five-hour trip to and from the Outer Banks, and on the beach they stood out, ninety-pound black dog sashaying with her redhead boy toy.

Mojo was the largest in his litter; all were reds. His mother, Blizzard, was white, but her coloring didn’t show up in that litter, only his father’s red coat. We named Mojo for his father. Mojo Junior was a handsome beast, though I suspect his long guard coat might have been a strike against him at a dog show–their great-grandfather had taken best of show at Westminster. Sixty-five pounds and tall enough people mistook Mojo for an Alaskan Malamute. Soaking wet, his true slenderness was more obvious.

Big Red with his pack. photo by William E Evans, 2008

Maddie came from the same sire, but a different dam and litter. She, unlike Mojo, was the runt in a litter of shades of gray and white puppies, and a scrapper from the moment she entered the world. Where Mojo held with the serenity of being top dog, Maddie was always on a mission. Her nickname was Boo-boo for all the ways she got into trouble. I forget and call Layla ‘Boo-boo’ sometimes; they might have been sisters.

If you harnessed and strapped M&M both together for a run, you’d best be in shape. Combined, they were a thousand pounds of thrust from less that a hundred pounds body weight. Mojo might have been a spectacular wheel dog (the strongest hitched closest to the sled for pulling), while Maddie seemed the better lead dog–she’d body-check Molly when she’d wander on a run. Molly had no idea what all this running was about, but she was game; all she’d ever wanted was a pack.

Raised from pups, Mojo and Maddie were perfectly trained to run–unless a rabbit happened (or hopped) across the trail.

Sheer determination - 2010 Iditarod Ceremonial start in Anchorage photo by Frank Kovalchek

Inside the house, Maddie ruled–even after Molly arrived, near twice her weight. Outside, Maddie let Mojo handle other dogs, and once Molly was on the scene, none dare approach. Molly liked her pack, and she was greatly entertained to scare the stuff out of anyone who had the nerve to pass by. We lost Mojo first, then Molly with her damaged kidneys, and Maddie lastly. It was a brutal eight months. Three years would pass before we were ready for another.

Here’s the thing: if you don’t tell stories, write them down or take pictures, what else you gonna take with you? It took a while, but I’ve figured out that much.

Already four when we adopted her, Layla had a history according to the Pet Harbor website. Picked up across the Potomac by the Prince George’s County animal control, her owners never claimed her–though being chipped they had the phone number—no reason, just she’d not been claimed by the folks she’d lived with?

Pet Harbor took her in.

Without question she was the loudest yowling husky in the Petco store that Saturday. She’d settle briefly while her head was being scratched through the cage, but only then. The Pet Harbor folks classified her as having an ‘easy behavior’–relative to what, I still wonder. Oh, I forgot–huskies.

After adopting her, we were disappointed she didn’t have the same instinct for straight ahead running that Butz (our first) and the pair had had. Layla tends to wander, tree to bush to leaf pile in her quest to scent out every single animal who’s passed that way before. She’s been on a mission and unapologetically disinterested in running for running’s sake. I’ve explained to her more than once they will take her sled dog credentials away if she doesn’t straighten out. Thus far, it’s not made an impression.

Though Layla does love car trips–like Mojo and Molly before her. She doesn’t hunker down on the floor the way poor Maddie would when traveling to the Outer Banks. Long car rides were misery for Maddie. Layla dozes standing up leaned against the back door with her head on the windowsill so she misses nothing.

Huskies, like wolves, have a way of frankly holding your gaze. A common canine wisdom insists dogs feel challenged by being stared at. Huskies? Nah. They’re more curious to see what you’re up to–might be a good game about to break out?

Rather unlike other breeds, huskies are earnestly interested in communicating with their humans–and humans in general. You can see it in how they address you, unabashed and certainly your equal. [1] Nothing they do (and to be sure they will do it) is wrong in their eyes. And they expect you’ll feel the same. They’ll grant you equal status, but in truth they’re just being generous.

Guilt is for sissies. Ask any husky.

One night while I was out of town, D was planning a nice dinner of grilled salmon with sides for herself. She left the kitchen briefly and returned to find the still-wrapped salmon had been filched from the counter, clean, no wrapper in sight. Mojo wasn’t the family mooch–his sister was–but unlike his sister, he was tall enough to stand on his hind quarters to reach the counter. He’d done this so stealthily D didn’t hear him make off with the fish and trot downstairs. She found him in his dog cage carefully tearing off the wrapper one strip at a time to reach his prize; Mojo was a fastidious diner. “Ah, man, what’d I do?”

If you’ve never seen two huskies and a rottie sitting politely flank-to-flank waiting for crisped salmon skin, you’ve missed something cute. The sound of the knife was sufficient to bring them to the kitchen. Some nights Mojo would take a position blocking one doorway and Maddie the other–which Molly solved by sprawling in the middle of the kitchen. Ninety pounds of black dog took up most of our galley kitchen.

[1] “Abashed: Put out of self-possession, stricken with surprise; confounded, discomfited, disconcerted; checked with a sense of shame, presumption, or error.” from OED.  Huskies never stoop unless there’s salmon involved.

Above all else, huskies are hunters par excellence. I’ve tried explaining this to some who believe dogs can be trained to accept the presence of cats. Huskies cannot be trusted around anything they view as game, which is pretty much everything from cat to cow. In Layla’s case, it’s no-way Jose.

Invited by neighbors several years ago for an early spring boat ride, Layla was smelling ‘CAT’ from the moment she jumped from the car. I maneuvered her through their backyard and onto their boat as fast as I could. The boat trip was enjoyed by all, although on landing, I spied their orange and white tabby, Oliver, defending a position in the back yard. Oliver is a rescued feral feline who fears no dog. Oh crap.

Layla employed a unique power puppy mode, flattening her belly to the lawn and becoming this ground-hugging fifty-pound tank. No barking, no yelping, just tank treads for paws. Being in that position lets her apply her weight for improved traction–and resistance to being pulled away. We left a long strip of missing turf in their yard before I could stop her from dragging me forward, while Oliver sat serenely watching a few feet away. If he’d only known how close he was to joining the cat choir in the firmament…

It’s not that I approve of this behavior. Just that it’s so strikingly instinctive. Last Saturday evening, visiting our neighbors with their outdoor heater cranking on the deck, they said they didn’t think it a good idea for their two cats’ first dog encounter to be with Layla. I suppose they’d heard the stories.

F---ing meow! as George Carlin said in his skit on dogs and cats.

If you google synonyms for ‘hunter’, ‘husky’ comes back. I wouldn’t lie. They have the nose for it. Not great eyesight, but they can smell game from way off. One evening after dinner, Layla launched herself from the porch door, doing a 100 yard sprint across the lawn heading for the bushes by the creek bottom to confront a full grown doe snacking on a course of sweet evening hostas.

From short feet away, Layla wasn’t sure how best to tackle the deer–though no question she planned to try. She was blocking the deer’s escape route when I got there, and she wasn’t backing down, silent and determined. Fortunately, when the deer gracefully hurdled the creek into our neighbor’s yard to retreat, Layla chose not to follow.

The foxes in the neighborhood know her well, as do the racoons who she taunts from the upstairs deck.

The rain seems has stopped. The lake is now brown as the Mississippi from the flood pouring in from upstream. The dam no doubt has a solid wave of water crashing noisily over the top, and Holmes Run is a raging torrent south of the dam. Not the most ideal weather for sniffing and peeing, but at least we’re outside and moving. Where’s that punk ass fox, anyway?

You looking at me? photo by William E Evans, July 2020