certain thing and they will respond a certain way.
Quincy always kept us hopping, just trying to keep up. During the race he stayed in camp and when my wife came for the race heimmediately became
her
dog. He loved me, he would play with me, he would talk to me, he would consider me, but if she was around I simply ceased to exist.
We took him home. I warned my wife, “He’ll get into the trash,” but he never, not once in the nine years that he lived with us, not a single time did he get into the trash.
I told her, “He may run off.” He never left her side. I told her, “He seems to be timid around other dogs.” He trotted into the sled dog kennel as if he owned the place, walked right into the circle belonging to Big Mac—an enormous dog from the Yukon that loved to fight and had nearly eaten a sled dog once— and Big Mac wagged his tail and started playing like a puppy with Quincy. I told her, “He might not be the smartest dog we ever got,” but with the possible exception of Josh, a Border collie that is now in my life, Quincy proved to be easily the smartest dog I have ever seen.
An example: He loved to ride in cars with the window open and catch the air by leaning out. When we got up to seventy it was too much and blew him half into the backseat. He quickly learned that the vent would provide the same effect and so he would sit and watch out the windshield and when he saw something interesting ahead—a dog, a cat, another animal—he would jump down to the floor and put his nose against the vent to smell them as we passed. If the smell bothered him he would jump up and bark just as we went by.
One time we stopped at a bank drive-through window and the teller handed me a small dog treat for Quincy. Quincy’s quick eyes seemed to light up when I gave him the treat. A week went by before I went to town again—we often didn’t get there for weeks—and then a week later I had to run in for something around lunchtime. Quincy jumped in the car, and as we approached thebank he saw it coming, jumped down and smelled the vent, then jumped back up and barked softly, just once, as we drove past. A block later there was a Dairy Queen and I thought, What the heck, I’ll get us a treat. Big mistake. When I stopped at the speaker to order, Quincy looked out at the service window, then jumped down and took a whiff at the vent. I’m not sure what he smelled but it apparently agreed with him, and as I drove forward to pick up my order, Quincy left me.
He leaped from the vent in one motion, over my lap, through the car window and into the service window. With a small scrabble of his short back legs, he hung for a moment on the edge, and then he was inside. I heard some yelling, saw people running and jumped from the car and ran inside, afraid of what I’d find.
People were standing as if in a tableau: the boy in his Dairy Queen hat and customersstaring at Quincy. He had jumped from the window to the counter and was happily licking a sundae sitting next to the cash register.
The mother lode, I thought. From the Alaskan bush to a Dairy Queen in Minnesota— what a great span of time and luck he had.
His greatest moment was yet to come and it was one which would ensure a life of joy and leisure as long as he walked the earth.
We lived on the edge of the northern bush and were frequently visited by natives of that wilderness. Porcupines, skunks, wolves, foxes, bear, weasels—all came to visit, and many exacted tribute. The skunks, foxes and weasels made it virtually impossible to raise chickens and we stopped trying. We had four gardens and every year the raccoons and bears would wreak havoc with the corn. The gardens were critical to us as a food source since we had very little income, so we had arranged a precarious truce with our wildneighbors. As long as the animals didn’t do too much damage we could live with their raids. I planted three times the corn we needed, twice the potatoes and four times the
Quincy always kept us hopping, just trying to keep up. During the race he stayed in camp and when my wife came for the race heimmediately became
her
dog. He loved me, he would play with me, he would talk to me, he would consider me, but if she was around I simply ceased to exist.
We took him home. I warned my wife, “He’ll get into the trash,” but he never, not once in the nine years that he lived with us, not a single time did he get into the trash.
I told her, “He may run off.” He never left her side. I told her, “He seems to be timid around other dogs.” He trotted into the sled dog kennel as if he owned the place, walked right into the circle belonging to Big Mac—an enormous dog from the Yukon that loved to fight and had nearly eaten a sled dog once— and Big Mac wagged his tail and started playing like a puppy with Quincy. I told her, “He might not be the smartest dog we ever got,” but with the possible exception of Josh, a Border collie that is now in my life, Quincy proved to be easily the smartest dog I have ever seen.
An example: He loved to ride in cars with the window open and catch the air by leaning out. When we got up to seventy it was too much and blew him half into the backseat. He quickly learned that the vent would provide the same effect and so he would sit and watch out the windshield and when he saw something interesting ahead—a dog, a cat, another animal—he would jump down to the floor and put his nose against the vent to smell them as we passed. If the smell bothered him he would jump up and bark just as we went by.
One time we stopped at a bank drive-through window and the teller handed me a small dog treat for Quincy. Quincy’s quick eyes seemed to light up when I gave him the treat. A week went by before I went to town again—we often didn’t get there for weeks—and then a week later I had to run in for something around lunchtime. Quincy jumped in the car, and as we approached thebank he saw it coming, jumped down and smelled the vent, then jumped back up and barked softly, just once, as we drove past. A block later there was a Dairy Queen and I thought, What the heck, I’ll get us a treat. Big mistake. When I stopped at the speaker to order, Quincy looked out at the service window, then jumped down and took a whiff at the vent. I’m not sure what he smelled but it apparently agreed with him, and as I drove forward to pick up my order, Quincy left me.
He leaped from the vent in one motion, over my lap, through the car window and into the service window. With a small scrabble of his short back legs, he hung for a moment on the edge, and then he was inside. I heard some yelling, saw people running and jumped from the car and ran inside, afraid of what I’d find.
People were standing as if in a tableau: the boy in his Dairy Queen hat and customersstaring at Quincy. He had jumped from the window to the counter and was happily licking a sundae sitting next to the cash register.
The mother lode, I thought. From the Alaskan bush to a Dairy Queen in Minnesota— what a great span of time and luck he had.
His greatest moment was yet to come and it was one which would ensure a life of joy and leisure as long as he walked the earth.
We lived on the edge of the northern bush and were frequently visited by natives of that wilderness. Porcupines, skunks, wolves, foxes, bear, weasels—all came to visit, and many exacted tribute. The skunks, foxes and weasels made it virtually impossible to raise chickens and we stopped trying. We had four gardens and every year the raccoons and bears would wreak havoc with the corn. The gardens were critical to us as a food source since we had very little income, so we had arranged a precarious truce with our wildneighbors. As long as the animals didn’t do too much damage we could live with their raids. I planted three times the corn we needed, twice the potatoes and four times the
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