SkiCountry Winter
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Welcome<br />
A<br />
to the<br />
southern<br />
Rockies<br />
n early snow, two feet. Light from<br />
the swollen moon drips through<br />
bare aspen branches rattling in the<br />
wind, blowing more winter this way.<br />
This moon – couched by the harvest<br />
moon in our wake and winter solstice<br />
still ahead – must have some powerful<br />
juju: dogs around the valley are<br />
howling their heads off, coyotes too,<br />
keeping the old-timers on the edge of<br />
sleep. And any animals still stuck inside<br />
whine and scratch at doors to get out<br />
and join the choir.<br />
Dogs have it made. They do their<br />
thing, and many days it feels like they<br />
run the place: they paw at doors to get<br />
in or out – we obey; they take a bathroom<br />
break – we clean it up; they play<br />
when they want, bark when it feels right,<br />
eat when it suits them, sleep when the<br />
mood strikes.<br />
They’ve always been a part of our<br />
culture, our everyday lives and language,<br />
from children’s rhymes – “Give<br />
a dog a bone, this old man…” – to song<br />
lyrics: “Who let the dogs out!” or “Ain’t<br />
nothin’ but a hound dog.” They’re part<br />
of our speech, our slang-guage: “dog<br />
tired,” “in the doghouse,” “can’t teach an<br />
old dog new tricks,” “going to the dogs.”<br />
And it’s no different here in the<br />
Southwest – when dogs are around,<br />
they tend to liven things up. They’re<br />
great for creating stories: everybody<br />
has a few favorites.<br />
We had a lab visit the ranch, lured<br />
there after smelling the sweet juices<br />
of a huge pot roast cooling in a pan in<br />
the shed. A couple of deep whiffs and<br />
he couldn’t stand it anymore. He broke<br />
through the shed door, nudged the pan<br />
off the shelf and quickly muckled the<br />
whole thing. Shortly, he swelled up like<br />
a pot-bellied pig and was moaning and<br />
miserable for days. His drooping eyes<br />
and face said he wanted forgiveness for<br />
his gluttony, but wanted even more for<br />
the swelling to go down so he could go<br />
back to being a dog instead of a pig.<br />
A French friend of mine was caught<br />
in an avalanche in the Alps, buried ten<br />
feet under. It was a ski patrol dog who<br />
sniffed him out. The dog started frantically<br />
digging like he was after a prized<br />
bone (not a crumple of living bones),<br />
and ended up saving my friend’s bacon.<br />
My friend has loved dogs ever since.<br />
We had a small hound for a time<br />
who loved to ride in front of me on<br />
a snowmobile, paws perched on the<br />
handlebars, tongue hanging out lapping<br />
up the cold air, skillfully leaning into<br />
corners. Other dogs stared at him with<br />
hound envy.<br />
There’s the tale of a dog falling into<br />
an ice fishing hole, a large one carved<br />
out with a chainsaw. Dog-paddling under<br />
the ice, he finally found another hole<br />
which happened to be in a nearby fishing<br />
hut where an old guy sat hunched<br />
over the hole, silently waiting for some<br />
action. He got it. When the dog exploded<br />
out of his hole, the old guy exploded<br />
straight through the side of his woodwalled<br />
hut. It didn’t slow him down a bit.<br />
“He sure could make tracks for an old<br />
guy,” said a witness.<br />
Another buddy of mine had a lab<br />
named Bubba who used to “pull a Houdini<br />
and disappear for days”– go on a<br />
dog walkabout. But he always returned,<br />
little worse for the wear. This particular<br />
time, Bubba didn’t come back. Days<br />
turned to weeks. “Missing dog” signs<br />
were put up around town, neighborhood<br />
kids questioned. Nothing. Gone.<br />
6 SKICOUNTRY 2015