This is how it all started, back in 1997.

Ice Blue Eyes

“God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the road.” —Isak Dinesan

Sometimes it is instantaneous. A single glance, a momentary glimpse into the eyes of a dog; contact is made, bonds form. Then a swift determination, “This is the one.”

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, one can make a commitment to a fellow creature. A dog or cat wins adoption from the pound or shelter; or a certain breed of dog or cat is rescued and fostered in hopes of finding it a good home.

These stories originated with one such dog and several others that followed in his wake. What slowly grew and evolved into a series of stories began as pleas for guidance to an e-mail list of Siberian husky owners, appropriately called “Sibernet.” It blossomed into a journal of how many insignificant, ordinary elements and events weave a rich tapestry through life. The chapters herein are the individual Internet postings, replete with signature closings. This crayola box of reminiscences records our true experiences.

Some of these tales and antics will bring a knowing smile to those who live with dogs; a mutual memoir. For others, it may lend insight into how our pets profoundly affect us in ways we often do not realize…. Such tales could center on any dog, but this one happens to be a Siberian Husky. And the fact that Taz is a Siberian, and our first “fostered rescue-husky” is precisely why these tales came into being.

A distinctive and dynamic breed, huskies are indelibly connected with the Far North. They elicit tales of the Yukon gold rush, the Iditarod trail, North and South polar expeditions, and of course, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Often mistaken for wolves, huskies are an immensely, strong breed; strong in muscle, very headstrong in attitude. Siberian Huskies are not the faithful, tail wagging, companion dog that many people assume. They are fiercely independent, doggedly determined, intelligent to their own detriment and full of rambunctious character. Intuitive, inventive, and clever, they constitute a very strong challenge, which is why so many huskies end up abandoned or in pounds and shelters. It also explains why most responsible breeders, husky organizations and owners actively discourage clients from being impulsive in choosing one.

Recognizing the challenge, the long-term commitment to rescue Siberian Huskies from the pounds and the endeavor to find them good homes is a formidable task at best, even for people as dogged and determined as the breed. As an owner of huskies for over twenty years, my partner, Robbi, deftly described the difficulties in the realm of fostering huskies.

However, being quite confident of my ability to handle a new challenge, I leapt to the task.

Therefore… On a bright, clear, March morning, with very little time to spare, I took a moment to race through the animal control facility in Orange County, California. The husky rescue mission ended prematurely with the fortunate puppy having been adopted prior to my arrival.

I took a quick dash among the kennels, preoccupied with other thoughts since the prime goal no longer existed. Distracted by the cacophony of noise, it amazed me that I made notice of anything at all. Turning down the last row, I suddenly halted in my tracks. Half way down the aisle, I saw his ice blue eyes. Amidst the boisterous dogs, barking and dancing about the cages, the pair of ice blue eyes sat tranquil and still. It was a red and white husky, sitting quiet and intense – which is no small feat in a breed recognized for hyper energy.

Approaching the cage, time suddenly froze for me as we focused upon each other. This immensely, peaceful dog in the center of this maelstrom studied me coolly, intensely. He looked right into me, and for a moment, we connected. Regaining my senses, the shortness of time reared its’ ugly head and I knew I must leave. Immediately, I determined to return and recheck the dog the following day.

A cursory check of the cage card revealed that the dog had been surrendered by its’ owner. No information was available except its’ name and age. The next day I returned for another evaluation. Tall and rawboned with a bushy, dry, sun-bleached coat, the dog was not attractive. Still, the husky exuded a calm, attentive intensity.

And those eyes… I couldn’t resist. I took him. Certainly we would find him a home through the husky rescue network quickly enough. Oh, and the name on his card, given by his previous owner, was Taz… – Scott Ski

“Opportunity’s favorite disguise is trouble.” – Frank Tyger

That was the start of six years of these stories…157 in all.

I will begin at the beginning and run the gamut of his stories.  Look for them here regularly.

thanks for remembering…

Scott

Like any good state secret, we are always the last to know. In keeping with his nature as a husky, I am only now finding out this missive.

It is with great sadness that I must relay the news that Colonel TAZ has passed over the Rainbow Bridge at the age of 14.

He had been living in luxurious retirement in San Diego for the last year, pampered and protected by Judy, a fellow sibernet member. He had passed away on August 8^th. I’m sure he relished the fact that even his intrepid biographer continued to believe he was issuing commands until now.  Colonel TAZ now commands on a higher level.

As most all of you know, TAZ was a rescue dog, covered with over 40 ticks, socked away in a corner cage at the Orange County Shelter. His piecing ice blue eyes convinced me to take him in. My life, my friend Robbi’s life was never the same. The episodes of humor, pathos, insight and learning…kissed with a touch of moral intuition, became a mainstay of this list and thousands of readers all over the globe since 1997…over 251 stories in all.

TAZ taught me many things, but possibly the most important is that every moment of life and every square inch of this planet holds something precious and special. The ordinary becomes extraordinary when it is held up and shown in light of the potential that is there. This shared experience of small, throw away moments we share with our pets, when truly examined and shared with all, was the basis of the Wellstone of shared experiences we have all enjoyed over these years.  And will continue to enjoy for years to come.

Colonel TAZ was both a pain and privilege, a joy and a heartache. But most of all, he was simply my dog. No greater honor could I ever have held.

Please go now and hug your pet. Tell them how much you love them and cherish them.

Just like TAZ, you will never see their like again. They are all unique and special.

As are all of you, my readers, my fellow pet owners, my friends.

In closing, there is a favorite quote of mine that I would wish to leave you with in memory of TAZ.  It is from the mythical 1930’s Chinese detective from Hawaii, Charlie Chan who sagely stated:

“Sometimes, beneath eyes that cry are teeth that laugh.”

In both joy and sorrow, Colonel TAZ now belongs to the ages.

God Speed!

Scott Ringwelski (Scott Ski)

It had been a very long day, taking three huskies to the end of the earth to be considered for an adoptive home. To those unfamiliar with our terminology, the “end of the earth” is a little, one horse…well, maybe one half of one horse, town in the middle of the high desert called Landers. On the map it sits near that big, open white space emblazoned with the word “Unexplored” across it. Very long drive.

At the end of this long trip, we all deserved a treat, especially the three exceptionally well behaved huskies that trekked with us to the desert. Being cost conscience, our choice was simple: Taco Bell was offering a 49 cent taco special..

Robbi proceeded to the counter while I made a restroom stop. Upon emerging from the facility, I spied it there on a vacated table: a partially munched chicken burrito and an untouched taco. Almost akin to a sixth sense, my peripheral vision scans every food establishment I enter for scraps left upon the tables. Mentally, I scan and analyze the contents of the remainders. Then, a full range of pre-set scientific standards commences. First, empirical summation on a visual level is required to quickly determine if the biological nature of the contents is a comestible option for canine digestive capabilities. Additionally, the overall mass must meet or exceed a predetermined standard; conducive when the overall mass has been mathematically divided evenly among the number of canines inclusive in the trip.

All internal calculations indicate in the affirmative for the left over food. Step two initiates and activates motor skills utilizing highly sophisticated tracking and capture techniques. Engaging a well practiced movement, I efficiently yet casually scooped up the entire affair, wrappers, napkins and all, in a single deft swipe and did not break my stride. Oh boy! Extra treats for the dogs! Mission Accomplished!

Meeting up with Robbi at the service counter, she noted my new found treasure.
“What’s that?”
“Oh!” replying enthusiastically, “I found a half eaten chicken burrito and a cold taco someone didn’t even touch!”
Robbi smiled, but didn’t quite share my excitement at the find. Actually, her glance was cast over my shoulder to a restaurant employee who was listening in on the conversation. The worker looked rather shocked and then disdainful regarding my selective scavenging of other parties’ leftovers.

Huskies, being bottomless pit garbage disposals, continually forage on anything they can beg, borrow or steal. When that number reaches nine, one starts to discover many new and inventive ways to “treat” the huskies. In polite society, I’m sure one would find scarfing up abandoned, half devoured morsels conscripted from a cheap fast food outlet rather abhorrent behavior. However, the practical nature and virtue of not wasting food, rescuing dogs, showing thought, care and love to a neglected creature, and offering a creative and cost effective solution seems to supercede a perceived breach of etiquette. Our sensibilities often change with our circumstances.

Looking back to my “pre husky” days, I’m sure I would have been as equally appalled as the worker. Very sadly, my disdain would have been based on assumption and lacking information, knowledge or experience. If the upset employee had but looked out the window a mere five minutes after overhearing my statement she would have witnessed three smiling Siberians enjoying the fruits of her labor that might otherwise have been summarily thrown out. One man’s trash is another’s treasure. It’s funny to contemplate but, the worker might have gotten more pleasure out of seeing the dogs’ satisfaction than knowing the people simply left it behind. All of us certainly did.

Scott, Robbi and the Salsa Siberians

“Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.”
 Art Linkletter

Taz Adventures © Scott Ringwelski
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Correspondence: ColonelTAZ@yahoo.com

Most dogs bark.  Some dogs howl.  Huskies, however, “sing.”  Even without lips, they make a convincing effort to talk.  Lacking lips but not the ability to kiss, they settle for a song.

Get our several huskies together and there emerges an enthusiastic, audition of amateurs as if seeking to become a barbershop quartet, a very, demented barbershop quartet.  Travis yodeled with the far-flung octaves of a Swiss mountain climber.  Elvis held a croon, soft and low, just like the King of Rock and Roll.  Our current duo harbors a distinct virtuoso.  It is not Taz, who brays loudly and insistently, sounding akin to a cross between a belligerent, hard rock bellower and a derelict donkey demanding dinner.  Missy blossoms as our opera diva.  She trumpets as if she might be the reincarnated version of the “Flight of the Valkyries”, a powerhouse opera star, complete with horned, Viking helmet, pronged trident, braided, blonde pigtails and armored breastplate, replete with classic 1950’s style Cadillac Bumper Bullets.

Missy’s most startling and unbecoming feature remains her cry.  Like any child who is left alone or upset, Missy wails.  However, her discontent rises in the form of a blood curdling, banshee scream that sounds akin to a human being torn asunder.  This leads to some serious embarrassment and gives insight into her name which is technically Miss PIB, or Mischievous-Pain-In-Butt.  Ergo: ‘Missy’ for short.

Currently, to enhance the continuing excitement Missy lends to our home, she is freshly up to her chest in a cast due to a run in, literally, with a window.   Since then the hyper-kinetic husky has made it her life’s ambition to perfect the art of cast removal.  Her creative methods in doing so continue to surprise us.  Robbi has made any number of treks to the vet these last ten days to have Missy’s cast restored.

Robbi’s Toyota truck features a camper shell, offering the dogs free access between the back and the cab.  The ever-antsy Missy is used to careening back and forth frequently, however the cast now hampers this perpetual movement.  On this occasion, Robbi finds herself engaged in maneuvering through heavy traffic.  She watched in the rearview mirror as Missy banged the truck cabin’s rear window open and poked her head through it.  From Robbi’s perspective, it seemed reasonable that Missy would be content with that since her weakened leg, burdened with a heavy cast, had as much probability as a rigged midway carnival game to get angled through the slider window by a chance toss.  However Missy, not content, and slow on figuring things out, commences to swing the casted leg across the window frame, attempting to put it through the open window.  Once in a great while, there is a winner, and Missy’s persistence paid off in spades.  Black spades,
because now her useless appendage, having no muscle tone, dangles helplessly between the cabin window and the bench seat, effectively imprisoned in place.  Stuck, without any ability to free herself, Missy struggles momentarily.  Then in a panic, Missy SCREAMS!  This is, of course, mere inches from Robbi’s ear.

As one might imagine, this generates immediate response, not only from Robbi, but also from over half the drivers and pedestrians within 100 feet of her.  Robbi alone thinks, “Don’t tear the cast off!  We just left the vet’s office!”  All  others within earshot however think, “That woman is brutalizing that poor creature!”  It is said “Reality is 90% perception.”  Since the limited framework of understanding for these listeners is a traumatized dog’s scream, assumption and bias will fill the void to activate their conclusions.  If looks could maim, Robbi would probably have been carried off in a wicker basket.

Desperately pulling across three lanes of congested traffic, Robbi navigates between Missy’s weaving head and shoulders currently blocking both back windows plus both rear and passenger mirrors.  Finally stopped at the curb, her solution to quell the bloody murder screams is to simply lift the dog’s leg from behind the seat.  Decidedly, Missy’s frantic struggling has pulled the cast practically off of the leg.  The fiberglass splint wobbles–shattered.  Happy Husky.  Maligned, miserable Robbi, swings the truck around to return to the vet and spend yet another $20, plus wait time.

With this many trips to the vet, and her days off limited, quick stops here and there are required.  On the way to the animal clinic, Robbi stops at a small, favorite card shop nestled in a local strip mall.  Knowing full well the brunt of embarrassment Missy can concoct, Robbi took great pains to park at the far end of the parking lot, hiking the hundred yards over to the store.  Missy immediately launched into her distress call.  From the magnitude one would think the Titanic was sinking in the back of that truck.

By the time Robbi arrived at the shop, both the clerks and customers at the card shop and neighboring two stores had filed out to the sidewalk.  With furrowed brows and concerned faces, they peer toward the shriek of anguish coming from afar.  They shared their joint concerns regarding the severely, injured child, screeching in obvious pain and panic.  Should they call the police?  Where is it coming from?  How could parents be so heartless and neglectful?  Is someone beating the poor thing?

Robbi thought she might try to calmly explain that it is only the dog and that shrieking is in its’ nature.  Even with that, it would probably require several attempts to fully convince them of the false alarm.  “It’s just my dog.”, Robbi muttered as she skulked by the concerned crowd and into the vacated shop.  “Really…she’s fine.”, Robbi offered again as the horrendous howls continued to surround and echo off the storefronts and the aghast assemblage.  Several pairs of eyes turned to rivet and bore into her as she sought to ignore the rampant noise.

It is understandable that people base their opinions and judgments on their point of reference.  To them, that may have been the sound of anguish, a child’s terror, violence seen in the media or film, personal memories of pain, but certainly not the singular image of a Siberian Husky upset at being left alone.  Robbi shopped in silence, quickly.

Twilight has fallen as she returns from the vet again and parks the truck at the farthest point away from other parked patrons at another the shopping mall.  A nearby, major boulevard filled with noise plus the distance to the mall should keep the sound of Missy from distracting others.  A short time later Robbi returns to find a scathing, profanity ridden, anonymous, scrawled note under the windshield wiper debasing her humanity for leaving the dog to bake in the sun.  This does not highlight ones’ day, particularly this day.  Husky Rescue?  Plah!

The back area of Robbi’s truck might be best described as a Holiday Inn on wheels for the canine set.  Big windows on both sides have bolted, heavy, metal screens allowing generous airflow, security and privacy.  Mats are on the floor for comfort.  Dogs’ toys, chews, a cow femur, plus plenty of food and water complete the ambiance.  Missy has access to the seats in the cab…all the amenities, including the gearshift and radio knobs for chew or removal.   Additionally, the fact that the husky sports a cast reveals that its’ health is taken seriously too.  To any reasonably, unbiased observer, the dog is a well cared for animal.  But, there are always uneducated observers who assume a dog screaming must be abused.  Aside from the fact that it was a cool, early evening, did the writer of the scathing note even look into the truck to see how the dog was cared for and the nature of the situation, or were they so buried in perceptions that fury and bias
vanquished attempts at comprehension?  How often we color reality with the heavy shading of our perceptions.

Missy’s embarrassing howling blinds me, too.  I found many an occasion to direct judgmental anger toward Missy for her seemingly senseless screaming.  But I have learned that one’s perception of the message can often overpower or invalidate one’s listening to it.  While I complain vociferously, Robbi hears a once abandoned, young, red and white puppy that spent five weeks caged at an humane society shelter.  Missy’s fear of desertion vocalizes at any interpretation that she might be discarded again.  Being disabled in a cast only accentuates the distress.  Reinforced, positive experiences and patient assurance–not my short-tempered and critical annoyance with Missy’s habits may eventually answer her cry.

Two ears and one mouth, when used correctly will surely keep our perceptions, and reality, better balanced.  I must remember that.  It also helps to focus on the positive perspective–particularly when fostering huskies!  Sure, each experience is another notch.  But readjusting my 90% perception will determine if it is a notch in a self-directed gun or a notch up on the growth chart of a richer, fuller, wiser–and maybe a calmer–bucolic life.

There is a widely, researched theory that petting cats becalms the human physiology.  Coddling a cat lowers the pulse rate and blood pressure.  Missy should be packaged and marketed as a sure-fire stimulant.  What a rush!  Even those a stadium’s length away from her beleaguered howls find their heart rate quickening.  Adrenaline flows freely, senses become heightened and placed on alert.  Additionally, at least for Robbi and myself, blood flows toward the head, where it shows in embarrassed, red cheeks, flaming red ears–and teeth gritted in positive hope for a well-adjusted, adoptable dog…someday.

Red-White Missy, the Valkyrie
Red-Eared Robbi, the Muttering
Scott and Taz

“Suddenly, it occurs to me, that I am able to choose a response
to every thorn and rose I meet.  I am response-able!”
—Brother Ramos

From the book “Dogged and Determined” by Scott Ski
TAZ Adventures (C) Scott Ski
All rights reserved, used by permission
Want more?  Go to ScottSki.net

 
            Life is rarely dull around this neighborhood, even aside from the huskies.  This week alone two incidents of rapid, multiple gunfire within 100 feet of the house occurred.  Additionally mid week, a stolen car high-speed chase ended four houses away when the gang member crashed and emerged, confronted by seven police cruisers, two cycle officers and the police helicopter.  Yes, this is normal for us and actually Robbi commented the other day how much better things have gotten around here.  Police in this area over our decade of residence have been a frequent and welcome sight.

…a moody and meandering saxophone solo starts in the background….

            “It all comes back to me like a scene out of a cheap detective novel….

“It was a gun-metal, gray, Saturday afternoon, hard, cold and blunt like a cheap Saturday Night Special.  I had grateful feelings for not being at the business end of it all.  On the plus side, the day proved cool and breezy as it offered to mingle with the reluctant and tardy clouds slumming over from the previous night’s cantankerous thunderstorm.…

          “Inside the house, I was hastily packing, throwing together everything.  I was looking forward to a quick getaway and hiding out for a week with some underlings in the City by the Bay.  Working on a carousel in San Francisco.  Views of the Golden Gate and all that loveliness.  But then, the best-laid plans do go awry.  Suddenly, it appeared the jig was up….

          An ominous knock on the door; a persistent ringing of the bell.  Without even peering through the curtains, the form behind the leaded glass window loomed immediately recognizable and formidable…the official, black uniform of a City police officer…”

Suddenly snapped from my daydreaming and my packing for a trip, I glanced beyond the curtains to what should normally be a welcome sight.  However, there was a tense feel to this unfolding situation.  I deemed it uncommon for a patrol officer to come knocking on my door.  Familiar with police procedure, I recognized that the officer stood back from the door in a “safe and ready” posture.  Having watched many of the real-life police shows, this clearly indicated impending doom.  Except that it’s usually seen on TV and in front of prospective drug dealers or gun running operations, not at my own residence.  Positioning himself away from the direct line of the entrance, ostensibly to avoid direct gunfire through the door, the stance also fixed the officer with his hand over his hip, able to draw quickly if needed.  This clued me to the fact that something may be amiss.   Apparently it should not be taken lightly by me since the officer may assume that the criminally insane inside the home, yours truly, might blast my way out in a blaze of automatic-weapons fire and end up a poster boy like Butch and Sundance.   

            Opening the door slowly, and very wide with a ready, friendly grin to match, I also noted the police cruiser was parked several houses away, another sure indicator of being in Big Trouble.  Greeting the officer warmly, I asked what I could do for him. 

            His tone was polite, but serious.  “We received a call from a concerned citizen reporting long, suffering, high pitched screams and loud moans coming from inside this house.  Do you know anything about this and would you might if I came inside and looked around?”  The officer probably confirmed right away in his mind that I really was criminally insane.  My reaction to his rather formidable charge of possible violence and torture was…a bigger grin, and hearty laughter.  

I blew it from the start, even though I stood in a very serious situation.   “Sure, officer, you’re welcome to check around, but if you really want to hear the screaming and moaning, along with some really, awful, three part harmony, come on around the house and down the alley.”  Trying to sound disarming, the whole attitude came across much too glib.  To prevent six to twelve happy husky paws and mountains of fur from decorating his uniform, I decided the alley route was safer than direct contact with the dogs through the house.

            Disarmed somewhat with my casual response, he continued, “You’re familiar with this?”  “Oh, yes sir!”, I replied, gaining some seriousness and leading him down the steps, out of the yard and down the alley adjacent to the house.  I did watch him out of the corner of my eye, half expecting him to draw down on me just to be careful.  Crazy folk are extremely unpredictable you know.  He stayed his distance and played it very cautious.

            “We conduct husky rescue.”, I responded to his query.  “As you know, the local pound officially gives dogs only 5 hours availability to be adopted.  We try to find good dogs, foster them, then adopt them to loving homes.”  I continued on to explain how huskies do not bark, they sing.  We strode alongside the alleyside chain link fence, double lined with bamboo to protect the dogs, and yard from prying eyes.  Upon reaching the padlocked gate at the far corner of our 80 foot lot, there was a place where the bamboo had been torn away and the dogs peek out to view the world as it parades up and down the alley.  The officer first noted Taz and his Ice Blue Eyes.  Taz began to greet the policeman.  His woof has a pounding beat that puts him on par with an heavy metal artist.  Missy, our primary prima donna, quickly appeared on the scene and began the opera portion of the program.  It’s not so much a song as a piercing, high pitched, VERY Loud, Blood Curdling Scream which sounds eerily human.  As the saying goes, ‘If one husky sings, ALL huskies must sing.’  Elvis quickly took to the stage with the husky equivalent to “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog.”  This also has the distinct, tonal qualities of medieval torture.  The cacophony revved quickly up to monumental pitch.  Hard Rock, Opera, and classic Rock and Roll.  To put it in perspective, it could be likened to having three, big, boom box radios, each cranked up very loud, on three, different stations and all tuned slightly off the bandwith.  Earnormously earritating.

“You can clearly understand,” I yelled over the incredible din,“ that hearing this emanating from inside the house, one could easily believe that some, horrible offense was taking place.  But, as you can clearly see, it’s just the way they communicate.  I think they like you!” 

Now the attitude of the situation changed considerably.  The officer simply stood, stunned.  He appeared quickly convinced that there was obviously no validity to the citizen concern.  Scratching his head in confusion, one could see him trying to figure how to write up the report and explain all this to the Sergeant.  He smiled weakly and began a hasty retreat to his patrol car to escape the aria as it reached its’ crescendo.  He could only shake his head in wonder as the volume continued spiraling upward.  From possible ax murderer under police scrutiny to awful music agent, opera conductor and rock promoter in the span of a few moments.  Either way, I’m still probably considered criminally insane.  Of course!  I foster Huskies!

Finally, the entire affair boiled down to a twisted, and convoluted ending, just like a cheap detective novel…which reminds me….

            “…A raw, and restless wind rose, subtle and supine, out of the west, whistling low and slow like a sailor sighting his first female after 6 months without shore leave.  Actually, it was just me, blowing a huge, sigh of relief at not being shanghaied by the copper and sent up river to the hoosegow. 

“Stepping back inside the house, I confronted the self impressed Taz who had let himself in through the back door and met me inside. “Nice going, Dog Lips!”,  I snidely commented.  Taz didn’t pay no never mind to the remark.  Copping a glance at the wall, I spied an interesting fact.  According to the dog eared calendar, hanging slightly crooked with a smiling husky beaming from the page, it stood exactly one year to the day since fostering Taz.  After all this time the dog still has the ability to amaze and surprise.  I snapped a loose salute at the Sibe.  “Here’s looking at you, kid.” .…

Only with huskies are such things possible….

actually, make that…probable.

            Gumshoe Scott, Robbi with the husky symphony orchestra and choral.

“A smile is the chosen vehicle for all ambiguities.”

                                                –Herman Melville

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            In searching homes for Taz, an unusual request came from a Sibernet member living in Alaska.  Seeking strong willed, calculating, perceptive, problem solving and resourceful dogs for her competition sled team, she read of Taz.  After a couple of Internet messages, she was willing to pay to have him shipped from Southern California to Alaska.  It’s true, Taz is a swift and strong runner that probably could take the team across the tundra, and his calculating intelligence makes him a strong candidate for such challenging work.  At the husky gatherings on Sundays, Taz would quickly outdistance the horde of huskies as they raced in a pack around the park.  Combined with his intelligence and clever nature, one could easily imagine him taking on the vast, northern wilderness. 

            The most enticing factor of this offer lay in the actual site of her residence.  She lived in a little town outside of Fairbanks, called…are you ready for this…North Pole, Alaska.  This town annually receives the most mail for Santa Claus.  My mind truly tantalized with the prospects of writing stories about Taz going to work for Santa and how Christmas would NEVER be the same as a result.  However, Taz had exhibited a small hop in his gait every so often and although I know he would love the Arctic, his ability for long distance sledding might be questionable.   

 On the cusp of that decision however, came a contact with a very nice couple in Hollywood Hills.  Their former husky had passed away after many faithful years and a traumatic illness.  When Robbi and I visited, they brought out photo albums of Tasha on vacation with them–from the beautiful, clear, snowy mountains of Colorado to the gorgeous, lush, tropical mountains of Hawaii.  Envious of a dog?  You bet!  In our weighing the decision, the couple who had lost their only dog, mourned for many months, and now sought another special dog, carried precedence over fun in the snows of Alaska.  Travis and Missy, our two very, handsome foster Sibes, went along with Taz as additional options to select in lieu of him.  As much as I admire Taz, I have to admit, he looks thin, wolfish and rather ugly in comparison to the lovely pair with him.  However, personality does count, and after test runs of all three dogs, the couple decided on Taz.  Actually, the husband seemed as taken with Taz as I had been.

            As is our adoption policy, we take the dog home with us after the initial meeting rather than risk an impulsive decision over first time impressions.  Potential, first time owners are asked to talk it over for 24 hours, consider their family members and the viability of their home for a husky–ie: escape proof, time to spend with dog, house privileges, etc—then finally, to make a firm determination of commitment.  

            They did and the following Tuesday, I brought Taz to his new home.  Normally sedate and quiet in the car, Taz leaped to the front seat, straight and alert when we were within a mile of the house.  He knew he had been to this place before and anticipated revisiting.  After parking, I opened the door, let him out and he remembered to go up the long flight of stairs to the magnificent, high, hillside home.  With the front door already opened in anticipation of his arrival, Taz began checking everything out and made himself to home. 

            It was an absolute dream.  A beautiful home, people who really wanted Taz, and Taz himself, quietly relaxing on the hardwood floor listening to us talking.  It seemed so ideal that somewhat nostalgically, I began to wax on a bit about the cleverness, intelligence and obedience of Taz.

Almost on cue, Taz got up and trotted over to me.  He gazed lovingly up at me with his ice blue eyes, smiled happily then put his head down and made a familiar sound.  In print, it looks like “uuUHRRuuppp—UrRRuuUPH- UUrrRRuuPP —GACKH!”  Which translated means, “It’s too late now!  Here it comes!”

            So, in mid sentence, as I extol the virtues of this fine dog, he vomits a huge, slimy mess at my feet and on a very, expensive carpet.  As Peter cleaned up the slimy upheaval with paper towels, I casually glanced around to see if there might be means of escape.  Profuse apologies followed, along with analytical explanations that the dog was under stress…somehow knew he was going to a new environment…and may have thought he was being abandoned…uh, uh….  Peter just smiled and took it all in stride.

            Changing the subject, I ventured that we should check out the upstairs patio to insure it being Taz escape proof.  Up a steep, sweeping staircase the three of us went, Taz’ fluffy tail leading us on.

            In a moment there lay before us a beautiful, garden patio with tall, bamboo plants, comfortable furnishings, and rich, lush greenery.  A delicate, cascading fountain surrounded by a custom, ebony-tiled built-in Koi pond completed the idyllic environ.

Huskies love pools and digging in them.  If you give them any water dish, they have to dig in it until it is sufficiently dirty, or empty, enough for their particular tastes.  Considering the pond was about two feet deep, Peter and I figured it seemed a good bet that the fish would have ample room to hide should Taz decide to pursue them.  Sure enough, Taz looked in, but found little interest in the fish.  However, he did appear fascinated with the gently, spalshing water from the fountain.  He casually strolled along the elevated edge of the pond and gingerly put forth a paw to test the water…and promptly fell in head first, vanishing completely under the water. 

            With his huge splash, a wave of emotions engulfed me.  Initially, there loomed concern for the safety of Taz as he had disappeared completely under the water.  Shock set in, wondering how Peter would handle this latest indiscretion.  Embarrassment followed, as I quickly glanced about on the patio for a rock large enough to crawl under and hide but alas, none was found in time as Taz surfaced in a panic.  The dog scrambled out of the pool and over to us for safety.  Then he decided to shake.  Water, everywhere!  I don’t know why people invest in expensive sprinkler systems when they could just douse a husky and then let him shake over their yard.  And no matter how many times, or how hard, or long they shake, they always retain just enough water to shake again, re-soaking all bystanders.  And did I mention that wet huskies also shed about 20 pounds of excess dog hair…very, wet dog hair when they go through this procedure?  And besides being wet, all of the fur is massively charged with static cling so it targets you, attacks, attaches and doggedly hangs on like cockleburs in the summertime.   Still, for reasons best left to professionals in the field, this nice couple decided to give Taz a try.  Peter really wanted Taz.  I left overjoyed that Taz had someone who would love him in spite of himself.

Prior to even the dogs’ first visit, arrangements had been pre-made to take the adopted dog back after ten days, only for the weekend, due to a previously scheduled trip.  During the ensuing week, Peter e-mailed praises and adoration of the dog but mentioned that his wife was disconcerted that Taz had scratched up the front entry and chewed up the carpet by the door.  I did recall a small, dark throw rug at the door to wipe one’s feet on. 

Upon walking in to pick Taz up, as arranged, I noted that the little rug appeared fine.  No, it wasn’t that carpet.  It was the custom, wall to wall carpet beneath it.  I lifted the little rug and behold…there lay a large, ragged patch of wooden floor surrounded by what used to be a pristine, white carpet in a previous existence.  OOPS.  As for the door…the 1930s, art deco pocket door, custom-built with the house…uh, let’s just move on, shall we?

            Upstairs, in an effort to keep Taz under control, they had borrowed a cage from a neighbor who owned a 100-pound Malamute.  The heavy cage had survived the Malamute, but not Taz.  Taz had ripped and twisted the metal so badly that the door would no longer close.  Having accomplished that Taz, of course, now loved to stay in it, since it could no longer confine him.  Through all of this, Peter’s calls and e-mails had been enthused and full of admiration for Taz.  However, the brief addendums regarding his wife’s dissatisfaction should have alerted us.

On the day prearranged for his return home to Hollywood Hills, I got the call.  It’s like when the wife or mom opens the letter from the government and reads “It is with deep regret that we write to inform you….”  Peter sounded quiet, reserved and devastated.  His reasons were valid and had little to do with Taz.  For several weeks following the fateful call, I received numerous emails from Peter, keeping in touch about Taz, but over time they gradually faded, along with hope and memory. 

Damn, it hurts.  It hurts, because I care about the dog.  It hurts, because it was a great home, and a man who truly wanted and appreciated Taz.  It hurts from the trauma of giving him up and now having to go through all of the gut wrenching once again.  Perhaps most huskies don’t belong in beautiful, elegant, well-organized environments.  They tend to clash with the surroundings.  Perhaps that’s why Taz fits in so well with the carnage he creates in our home.

It comes with the territory, with the nature of the beast.  The positive point of all this is that, with a Victorian home filled with all manner of wondrous things, when the time comes to finally move, we probably won’t need a fleet of moving vans to carefully pack, crate and delicately transport the treasures.  After Taz and the other huskies, all we may really need is a simple bulldozer to finish off the job.  

There come two lessons learned by this adventure: First, possessions are temporary and temporal.  It’s nice to have, but in the end, it’s just stuff.  It gets damaged, lost in fires and floods, and when you die you can’t take it with you.  Possibly the greatest pain might be in watching your heirs take your most treasured items and throw them on the lawn with some miniscule price tag on it that makes you spin in your grave. 

Secondly, disappointment can be a matter of perception and attitude.  I felt hurt, angry and a sense of failure over the situation.  Taz, on the other hand, recouped more quickly, seeing himself back with the pack.  Dogs don’t live with regrets or blame.  Life holds new surprises everyday, no matter where we are or in what circumstance we find ourselves. 

At least there was a moment, a memory, and the hope. 

Thank you, Peter.

            Scott, Robbi, and still with us…TAZ

Animals are such agreeable friends

they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. 

                                         –George Eliot

 
New introductions

            Taz, is a foster dog and looking for a permanent home.  The nice San Diego couple took him but needed to return him a week later.  Believing Taz adopted, that very next day we lost all sanity and rescued two beautiful red and white Sibes that had run out of time after languishing in the Glendale Humane Society for five weeks.  Travis is a two and a half year old, sixty seven pound, muscular, good old boy, a couch potato dog with a gregarious attitude and a near perfect vacuum between the ears.  We assume Missy may be Travis’ 35 pound, one-year-old daughter.  They think alike, except she appears to have inherited only a fraction of his Phi Beta Kappa.  She is absolutely cute.  Unfortunately, she knows this, and like any “little princess”, turns on the charm continuously to get her way.  Bottom line?  Now we had three huskies!  But, even while Taz was away the battle raged on…

Our Story Continues…

            Amidst the battlefield of knocked over, moved around, and decimated items that rambunctious huskies leave strewn in the pathways, there comes a nerve rattling test of agility and gamesmanship.  To reach light switches, one maneuvers dark hallways through rooms without knowing what lies ahead; what new obstacles lay in wait to poke, prod, stab.  What insidious traps lurk to slam toes and bruise shins.  Challenges await, like identifying by touch, in the dark, what precious antique has been turned into worthless trash.  Then, of course there is the ultimate, silent terror of the home front battlefield —what some euphemistically refer to as “Land Mines.”  It is a popular item left by dogs too clueless to let people know they need to go outside.

            Through detestable experience, we know these mines are cleverly and carefully placed.  No, Travis is much too crafty to leave one of these noxious entities in the middle of say, the kitchen linoleum floor.  Even in the dark, the light colored floor and its’ reflective surface offers tell-tale evidence from a distance.  Not only that, linoleum is very easily cleaned.  No, Travis places his pieces in the most narrow, high traffic, dimly lit area of the house…the staircase.  And he leaves it solicitously arranged on a dark, patterned wool carpet runner.

Just when one believes that they have mastered the concept of looking carefully at the landing to see if a pile is rising from the carpet, Travis concocts a new strategy…  Multiple Warheads.  It lures one into a false sense that once the original, or even a second item has been discovered, the danger is passed.  As many as four have been discovered on the steps at one time.  One strategically and carefully steps around the mess, kneels to clean it up, or actually sits on the next step up to work on the damage.  Such reconnaissance laxity has led to tragic consequences for carpeting, clothing, posteriors and most disgustingly, the unwary bare feet.  The most dreaded sound in the house is not a Bang, Crash or Boom.  It is the soft, almost inaudible “…squish…” 

Ah, but a greater danger than that lurks for both dog and man–but probably not woman–they’re too smart, enough said.  The other night, while descending the stairs there was the quiet squish.  Unaware it was a prelude to more dangerous environs, the instinct was to pull my foot up then gingerly step down with the clean foot to the landing.  SWOOSH!  Another loose pile had created an oil-slick like surface.  Smearing the stuff the length of the landing, I slid as if stepping on a roller skate.  WHAM!  Roaring downward to the base of the stairs and landing in a heap at the bottom, I sat dumbfounded.  My only thought was  “Thank God, I’m alive!”   What an inglorious way to go. 

Newspaper Headlines:

  MESSY MIS-STEP MORTALLY MANGLES MAN

Newscast highlights:

CRAP CALLED CULPRIT IN MAN’S FATAL FALL.

…Film at 11.

But in all of this embarrassment there is a note of irony.  We humans are not the only fallible creatures of the squish factor. 

Upon returning home from work late the other night, two happy huskies met me at the door.  The all too familiar, olfactory warning drifted down the stairs.  Peering into the darkness while placing my line of vision parallel with the landing, I spied the telltale mounds rising forbiddingly from the landing.  But wait.  There was a dark form there on the white wall.  Quite large, there is suspicion that it might be one of those giant cockroaches, which infest the area this time of year.  Illuminating the staircase would cause it and any others that might be in the area to scatter and remain at large.  There were several hovering in the dark there, but the big one remained the prime target.  One roach that size, and they are always female, always pregnant, would undoubtedly hatch 3,000 offspring that are also pregnant at birth.  Having highly trained experience with these denizens it was imperative that I act fast and kill this one before it could skitter out of sight.

Carefully, quietly, stealthily, I approach the largest of the group to knock it down from the wall with my hand and crush it underfoot.  Once in close proximity, I position myself and….STRIKE!   In one fell swoop. WHAM!  Off the wall.  BOOM!! It hits the floor.  BAM!  I stomp on it for a direct hit!

…squish…

It was not a cockroach.

It was however, on my hand, on my shoe and ground into the carpet. 

Yes, unbelievably in the annals of science, poop has now defied the laws of gravity.  Well, knowing that laws of science rarely fail, I turned to light the area.   The sixty seven-pound Travis, in his excitement of tearing down the stairs to greet me at the door, had skidded in his own mess.  In attempting to gain balance and traction, his big paws whipped the contents like a blender with the lid off.  Antique furnishings, framed pictures, and four feet up the white walls were liberally free flung with dung. 

            After extensive cleaning of walls, decor, carpet, and flooring, I’m pooped out!   And all the dogs seem to say is “Thanks for the clean carpet

            Fostering Travis and Missy has elevated Taz immensely in my eyes as one might well imagine.  Isn’t it amazing?  What starts as the scourge of dogs emerges as the most highly prized.  It’s all comparative, of course.  And in comparison to Missy and Travis, Taz rates right up there with Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, and of course, Yukon King in my book these days!! 

            Odd how my thoughts turn to God, especially right after almost being disgracefully killed by slipping in dung or when anger arises at the dog…over something stupid that I did, like stomping on the poop.  How does God view us?

Standing there, covered in crap, looking incredibly foolish…that’s a real good start.

But God, despite ourselves and the mess we make or cover ourselves with, still accepts us and cleans us up.  And still considers us alongside the angels.   And we have so little patience with others…

            Did I hit my head that hard on the stairs!?!?!

Better see the doctor and have my head examined.….

I get so philosophical and spiritual at the weirdest times.  But maybe, those odd moments are the times when we learn best.

Scott, Robbi, the fabulous Taz, Travis, Missy, Ninja, Megan,

Hook, Chessie, B/W and Grey Thing

…..and the start of a great, fertilizer business….

“If you can laugh at it, you can live with it.”

                        – Erma Bombeck

  Chapter 23 from ‘Dogged and Determed’ – by Scott Ski

Playing Favorites

            December 25  Christmas Day

            “Men can often see farther through a tear than a telescope” — Leo J. Muir

             It seems that everyone loves toys.  We all find ourselves inadvertently, on some subconscious level, picking up and idly fiddling with kids’ toys whenever the opportunity presents itself.  The tales of the boy receiving a train set for Christmas and never seeing it again after his father has commandeered it to “help” the child with it is almost proverbial.  Toys are part of life, seemingly for all of us.

             Our canine friends are the same.  They love toys.  If a person does not provide a dog with a plaything, the dog itself will provide  …usually in the form of one’s best Sunday dress shoes.  And no matter how many or how sophisticated toys become, it is usually a single, simple selected one that emerges as the Beloved Toy.

             When Taz was preparing to go to his second adoptive home, I bought him a new toy, a little, stuffed lion sporting a squeaking noisemaker.  The sound resembled the plaintive cry of a wounded, water buffalo so Taz immediately loved it.  It appealed to his predatory nature.  There appeared such satisfaction as he happily chomped away, the little figure wailing painfully.  It is said that to add to the toy’s appeal, it should carry the owner’s scent, so I slept with it that night, stuffed under my sweatshirt, wedged firmly in my armpit to give it maximum fragrance.  Yes, I slept very little that night as it made sorrowful, squeak noises every time I moved. 

            When Taz returned from Hollywood Hills, so did the lion.  Missy and Travis had their blue eyes turn green with envy and launched into a coordinated campaign to relieve Taz of his prize.  Since the dogs alternate in the house, Missy and Travis obtained the opportunity to wreak revenge on Taz’ toy.  Missy worked tirelessly to open holes in the hide and systematically tear out all the stuffing.  She left it all in big clumps, usually right under the dining room table where Taz likes to reside.  Travis, apparently aspiring to a medical career or having watched too many hospital dramas, engaged in a new surgical procedure.  Working carefully and meticulously, he cleverly extracted the entire bladder and squeaker through the lion’s ear.  What remained after all this malicious behavior was a flat, brown, fuzzy rag.  Nonetheless, Taz still loves it.  He knows it is his toy and lets us know it is not to be tossed or taken lightly.  Other toys may come and go, but the lion sleeps tonight, with him, under the dining room table. 

             Funny how our dogs reflect us.  I would wager whoever and wherever you are, there is a treasure somewhere, hidden away in the dark bottom of a drawer, in a forgotten corner of the closet, deeply tucked in the high attic, wrapped up in the middle of a dusty box.  Probably a simple thing, a toy, memento, book or piece of clothing.  The item survived years of use and abuse, the ravages of time and now lies holed up in a long, unremembered locale.  It stands to reason that the object vanished, completely lost from memory and not even this writing can spark recall of it.  But, it remains, waiting.

             Some day, rummaging through whose-its and what’s-its, this significant piece will surface.  Gently, carefully, you will hold the item in suddenly, quiet hands, delicately unwrapping the article to touch and stroke.  It may be beaten, battered, bent, bashed, bombarded, bruised, bumped and broken, but the thing remains a treasure.  Feasting a gaze upon it, eyes get misty, warm feelings emerge from deep inside and nostalgic reminiscences bloom forth as fresh and delightful as they were when they were new emotions.  However, the icon is not something that one would put on display.  Others would not understand its’ personal value.  Deep sentiment often can not be communicated.  So the piece is once again gingerly wrapped up, stowed away, safe and secure, left to re-discover another time.  Its’ treasure still intact, and untarnished will gleam again and impart its’ magic the next time it surfaces.  Satisfaction and gratitude remain for having kept it all this time. 

             So, just like our canine companions, we too, keep our special toys, just as ragged, ripped, ratty and ruined as theirs.  And just as unique. 

            Therefore, be very thoughtful, attentive and selective in choosing that one toy for your dog.  It will be loved, adored and cherished, hopefully throughout a long, and very, full life.

 And perhaps more importantly in years beyond, that same toy might very well become your own hidden treasure; flourishing with precious memories and thankful tears of joy for a very, dear, friend each time it is rediscovered.

 Scott, Robbi,      and TAZ…with his special lion

“God created memory so that we might have roses in December”

            — Italo Svevo