​Here’s my story …
 

Our town of Enumclaw is—if you have a weirdly long throw—just a stone’s throw away from Crystal Mountain, the upscale ski resort at which my owners have been lifelong members.

​

Recently they decided to try ‘skijoring’, which is when a skier is pulled by a motor vehicle, horse, or, in this case, dog.

​

Reader, look at my picture. Do I look like the kind of dog that was bred to drag a fully grown human across a snowy expanse?

​

‘Come ooooon!’ my owner yelled. ‘Faster! Faaasteeer!’

​

So I stopped altogether.

​

‘I said faster, not stop!’

​

I still didn’t move.

​

‘Go! Move! Vamoose! Skedaddle! In fact, ski-daddle’, my owner said, and laughed to himself.

Ugh. Now I’m definitely not moving, I thought.

​

‘Goooooooooooooooooooo!’ He screamed.

​

Noooooooooooooooooooo, I mentally retorted.

​

‘Okay’, said my owner, ‘if you don’t move, then when we get back to the lodge dining hall, I’m not giving you any of my smoked elk sausage.’

​

Damn. This was a smart move on my owner’s part. I love that smoked elk sausage. I love it so much, in fact, that I’ve stolen it off my owner’s plate on more than one occasion.

​

So I started to run. I pulled my owner all around the resort and you know what? It was fun! I sprinted and skidded and tumbled down those slopes like the happiest of Huskies.

​

Then, when we got back the lodge, my owner ordered the smoked elk sausage.

…and didn’t give me any.

​

‘Next time, just run when I ask you to’, he said.

​

Next time, I thought, I’ll run us both over a ski ramp and into a freezing-cold lake.

--
Story by ShadyPets.com (c) 2021. All Rights Reserved.