Hi, Lynn here.  I have been using my middle name since the age of 30, and please, no-one ask how long ago that was or why I changed it. My family still refuses to acknowledge my wishes in this particular matter, so if anyone refers to me as Dena in your presence, you may assume they are related to me in some manner.  I am employed by a Museum to manage the care of and access to their Anthropology collections.  My hobbies include my job, playing with my dogs, riding my horses (sorry, that will be another web page some day), reading, rock hounding, antiquing, hiking, collecting non sport trading cards, and driving my husband crazy with Honey-Dos. Organizations I maintain memberships in include the American Association of Museums, the Idaho Association of Museums, and the Pocatello Kennel Club.  I am married to Brian, a lovely bruiser of man, formerly of St. Louis, Missouri, and a fantastic mechanic, even if I do say so myself. That's how we met; he fixed my car. The bill was considerably less than it should have been, and, well, since good mechanics are hard to come by and he seemed inclined to follow me home, I kept him! Unlicensed strays are fair game....he is microchipped now, though.

As I stated above, I have lots of hobbies, but the subject of this web page is specific to my masochist canine fascination. I blame it on my friend Colleen (names have NOT been changed to avoid protecting the guilty). My husband and I baby-sat her Siberian Husky during a relocation related to her new job, as she needed time to find a place that would let her keep Inua with her. When she finally got settled, AFTER 6 WEEKS, she had the nerve to take Inua back! We cried for a week. Well, I cried, Husband just harumped a lot and rubbed his eyes, saying his allergies were bothering him. Since we had just purchased our own home with a fully fenced yard, and Inua had been such fun, we decided it was time we got a dog.  Up front we knew it would have to be one of the northern breeds, as we were now totally enamored of their personalities.  The three main breeds we researched were Samoyed, Siberian Husky, and Alaskan Malamute.

Because they are completely white, and I am not domestic in any sense of the word, the Samoyed was ruled out immediately as being too high maintenance in the grooming and cleaning-up-after departments.  Siberians were also ruled out because we had experienced some issues with Inua, being a little too high strung, snappy around children, and barking quite a lot.  We lived in town and near several families with little ones at the time, so people skills and quiet were absolute musts.  Then we found the web site for the National Malamute Club of America.  We were hooked.  Large, gorgeous, colorful, people-proof, lousy guard dogs that rarely bark.  Shedders that require exercise; we'll deal with it.  Dangerous around livestock....hmmmm, non issue.  Then we began pricing them, and the sticker shock nearly killed us.  A pup from a reliable breeder wasn't going to be much shy of a thousand dollars!  So, we decided to started looking into a rescue dog.  After all, we wanted a pet, not the next Best of Breed at the Westminster Dog Show!  We were also uncertain about taking on a young puppy at that time in our lives, so we began canvassing the want ads, local humane societies, and animal shelters for an adult Alaskan Malamute.

Found wandering loose near the American Falls Reservoir at about nine months of age, she was taken to the local Animal Shelter, where she was adopted by her first family of record.   Three years later, when they could no longer keep her, she was advertised in the Thrifty Nickel as "free to a good home only."  These folks were serious about this stipulation, asking many questions of us, and even requesting follow up visits (they still drive by once in a great while).  They liked us because we were the only people who called on the ad who were looking for a house pet to pamper and had no intention of trying to breed her.  They brought her to visit me the next day, and I fell in love with her big, warm brown eyes.   My husband couldn't be there, so he and I drove together to American Falls from Pocatello later on to visit with her again and talk to her family.  She was huge, 27 inches at the shoulder, all of 46 inches long from nose to rump (slightly larger than average freighting size for most males), and at 95 pounds, just a little out of shape!  Well, she definitely had a shape, it just resembled that of a sausage.  But, she was beautiful, friendly, mellow, completely kid proof (demonstrated by the family's two-year old flopping down in front of her, pulling her ears and reaching into her mouth), and, except for some very odd vocalizations that reminded me of Chewbacca the Wookie, she was very quiet, so we asked her to come and live with us.  She happily climbed right into the back seat of my little Toyota Tercel, which she filled to total capacity!  Her ex-parents were a little unhappy about her apparent lack of concern with this new arrangement, but I explained to them that my research indicated non-specific people love was an inherent trait of the breed.  Her old family had called her "Electra," but that didn't seem regal enough, and so she became our Duchess.

After a brief period of us adjusting to her living indoors, and we worked through what were obviously unchangable Mal quirks (more on that later), we got along famously.  Having just lost Inua back to her Mom, we were already prepared for the routine of doggy care, so it didn't take long to get the groove back.  She did seem to us to be rather quiet compared to what we had expected for a young adult Mal, and she would occasionally yelp for no apparent reason when getting up or down.  We mentioned these issues to the vet when we took her in for a full check up and battery of shots.  Another vet later (if anyone has questions about this, please contact me directly and I will give you my reasons for the change) and after a few tests, it was determined that she was suffering from polycystic ovaries.  We scheduled her for a spay one week later, something we had intended to do anyway.  We also had our new vet remove her enormous rear dew claws, because she kept hanging them up on things and injuring them.

We had thought the inflamed ovaries and always wounded dewies were responsible for the lack of energy and tenderness on movement issues, so, when the yelping continued more than six weeks after her surgery,  I started doing some research on known Malamute health issues.  Hypo thyroidism and hip displaysia were among the big ones cited by breeders.  Being very familiar with the hypo thyroid thing, having been diagnosed with it myself at age 25, I suddenly recognized some of her symptoms as similar to what I had gone through (chronic exhaustion, weight gain, skin and hair problems).  So, off to the vet again.  Almost no thyroid hormone registered in her blood test, and she was additionally diagnosed with mild displaysia of her left hip.  Both treatable.  We breathed a huge sigh of relief and wandered off to the doggy pharmacy, grateful the dog had been free, because it was obvious her upkeep wouldn't be.  Her former owners were horrified to learn that she was less than healthy, and grateful that we had taken the time to get her checked.  They asked if we wanted to give her back?  Can you say not only no but "HELL NO?!"  In their defense, she had lived outside in a dog run while with them, so they had not spent the amount of time interacting with her that we did, and thus had no idea she was in trouble. A month later, after being saturated with thyroid supplements, glucosamine chondroitin, and many short walks, we decided that she was going to be just fine after observing her bound completely over the coffee table without a hitch after being asked if she would like to go for a walk!!!

The neighborhood children love her to pieces, and the feeling is definitely mutual.  She will stand there, head down and drooling, while the children, completely dwarfed and ooing and awing, try to pet her soft, furry pelt off.  I have watched her guard crawling babies and toddlers from their own family dogs, knocking the upstarts to the ground and kneeling on them or mouthing them for getting too rough with the children or for barking rudely at innocent passersby.  Once I even observed her notify my friend that her son was in need of changing by repeatedly bumping the child's diapered backside with her nose as he tried to crawl away from her, and, when she couldn't figure out how to undiaper the visiting puppy herself, she walked over to my friend and took her sleeve in her mouth and pulled, trying to draw the errant Mother up out of the chair and over to the baby!  We were laughing too hard to do anything immediately about the situation, which only made her indignant at our apparent lack of upbringing.  I swear she would have cleaned him up on her own, had she been able to remove the diaper, but since she couldn't, it quickly became obvious to her that the Momma Dog with the opposable thumbs needed to be informed of her duties.

We felt sorry for our girl, though, being alone all day in the house with nothing to do (we were amazed to discover that she did not know what toys were for at that time), so we decided she needed company.

We had no idea what we were getting into with this one.  She was a golden blonde fluff ball with pretty white markings, an adorable pink nose, only two months old, and CLEARLY marked on her adoption card were the words "Husky Cross, probably with Golden Retriever."  Perfect, NOT!!!  I still have that card, and I should sue.  Never trust the Animal Shelter to tell you the truth about a dog's breed.  As is turns out, Little Miss Honey Dog is a Border Collie, lightly peppered with Golden Retriever (just enough to account for her golden coloring and fluffy french bloomers), and heavily pepper with SASS.  I don't really blame the shelter, they probably lie about all their Border Collies.  I certainly would, if I wanted to get them adopted.  So, needless to say, although we were prepared for a puppy, we were NOT prepared for a Border Collie puppy.

But, we love her now, and she is ours forever (at three she has toned down considerably from the terrible two month stage).  However, neither me nor my husband will ever again own another Border Collie as long as either of us draws breath, so help us God!   We are still recovering from our first year with her, and likely will be for the rest of our natural lives.  Unlike Duchess, she has required obedience training and constant reinforcement for behavioral issues relating to poor people skills.  She just doesn't know when to turn off the guard dog thing.  When there are children around we simply have to kennel her.  So, if there are any Border Collie fanciers reading this, I really have to ask WHY would you ever do this to yourselves ON PURPOSE?!!   Cattle and sheep work only, house pet, never, never, never!!!!  My ankles just can't take any more herding, and I no longer bother about the appearance of my shoes (puncture marks).  She wears me out trying to guess what I am going to do next instead of just waiting for me to tell her.  She is also terrified of the garbage truck, parades, firecrackers, running water in all forms, bicyclists, and skate boarders.  On the other hand, she will also challenge dogs the size of houses, bark at anything that moves (as long as it is on the OPPOSITE side of the fence), and squash dangerous spiders to protect her Mom...okay, I have to stop and tell the story about this one.   It has to do with why we continue to put up with her.

First of all, I have to explain that I am nearsighted to the point of blindness unless assisted with contacts or glasses.  One day last summer, as I was sitting at the edge of the tub washing my feet after gardening, I saw this dark spot on the floor that I thought was a clump of grass, probably fallen off of my recently removed shoes.  I put my feet on the floor next to it, and bent over to pick it up.  All at once I heard Honey growling from the door way.  I looked up to see if Duchess had pissed her off by stepping on her or what (they aren't best friends, and mostly just tolerate each other, so why did I ever bother in the first place...), when she snarled and lunged straight at me!  I freaked and jerked back, not quite sure what was up, but all she did was land on the dark spot with both front feet.  By this time I had grabbed up my glasses, and I looked back to see her pick up the spot in her mouth, chomp down, and spit it out.  So now she is all wagging her tail and looking thrilled, so I bent over for a good look at the mangled spot, only to discover the remains of a very large Hobo spider.  She had steak for dinner that night, and my husband got leftovers; after all, where the hell was he when all this was going down?!  Now we rarely have flies or spiders of any kind in our house since Honey has lived with us, and she has never been bitten, so she obviously knows how to hunt them.   She also knows that Mom screams when she sees them, so it is up to her to take care of the situation, poisonous or not.   She knows that shriek, and will come running to my aid without hesitation.   In this case, however, I did not see the danger, and would definitely have been hurt if it hadn't been for the Baby Dog (my nickname for her).

Then, in April of this year, she was responsible for getting a thief arrested.   Mind you, the Mals slept through all this, and they were OUTSIDE that night in their kennel, because they didn't want to come in.  Now normally when Honey starts barking in the middle of the night you can depend on it to be one of two things: a shadow created by a passing car's lights, or, someone walking down the street after a night of drinking who is cursing because they keep stumbling over the broken sidewalks.  Note to Mayor: walking straight is tough enough in the daylight and sober, given the condition of the sidewalks in our neighborhood.   Anyway, Honey's barking is usually short lived, a few seconds, just to let everyone one know she is on the job, and then she settles back down.  Well, this time she wouldn't let up her barking and growling, and then she parked herself in front of the formal living room's picture window until we got up to check.  To our amazement, there was some punk checking the doors on our vehicles!   When he found our neighbor's suburban open, he just crawled right in!!!  We called 911, and they cuffed and stuffed the little snot in a squad car and took him away.  So, we are keeping her, Border Collie flaws and all.

Now happily settled (for the most part) into a routine with our two quarrelsome brats, we didn't expect to be taking on any other canine children, especially since my parents have issues with being saddled on occasion with Granddogs instead of Grandbabies.  My in-laws, God bless 'em, have no such issues.  My Mother-in-Law, at last count, was keeping seven dogs, all of them house pets!  Jim and Norma, however, live in Missouri, and cannot be here to influence my own narrow minded parents.   I tend to split the dog love thing down the middle, because I think seven dogs is excessive (sorry Norma), but no dogs is just plain unacceptable (sorry Mom).  So, to my way of thinking, two dogs are just right.  I was soon to discover, however, that the Almighty on High has a sense of humor.

Our newest family member, Yukon Thunder IX (give me a break, I didn't name him, it was on his AKC registration papers), came to us very unexpectedly. We certainly had no plans for taking on a new dog with our busy schedules (both working full-time and me in the Graduate program), especially since we were already a two dog household. But, we knew him, and his old family could no longer keep him. They were facing overwhelming financial hardship and a family crisis coupled with a change of housing issue. Based on his condition when we finally brought him home--his ribs showing, and his ungroomed, filthy coat covered with mats and burrs-- they probably should have let him go sooner than they did, but at least they were able to do what was best for him in the end.

His people chose us not only because they knew us, but also because they knew we doted on our; other Malamute, Duchess, and our other little pound puppy, Honey Dog. Yukon reminded us quickly that he would fit in very nicely with our lifestyle--just as Duchess had--after WE got over the culture shock. Now, just for clarification on that subject, all Mal owners know this breed can be strong, tricky, stubborn, manipulative, demanding, drink by BITING the water out of their dishes instead of lapping it up, howl like wolves, sass back, are capable of inflicting the “evil eye,” chase anything that moves or barks, shed like mad every spring (guess when we got him), and to top it all off they have serious personality quirks that can drive a crazy person sane. They are also kid proof, lousy guard dogs that are clown-like in their play, catlike in their grooming and movements, highly vocal (all Mals “voice”), intensely beautiful, affectionate, lovable, cuddly, sweet balls of very soft fur that rarely bark--except AT YOU when dinner is late or a walk is REQUIRED. Which reminds me, they also look impressive on a leash while dragging you down the street. Picture me trying to pull back and screaming "UNMUSH!!!" What the heck are those sled dog commands again? Someday I'm gonna read a book....

Pack order, in particular, is all important when fitting in a new dog.  Fortunately for us, Duchess, who is usually heinously wicked (can you say "Hyper Alpha"?) towards any dog of either gender, fell in love with him at once.   Her enamoration of him was the talk of the neighborhood, which, for the first two weeks, mostly consisted of parents covering their children's eyes and saying "I'll tell you when you're older..." How embarrassing; she was 7 1/2 years old at the time and spayed for crying out loud!!Then, we had the additional difficulty of explaining the new “situation” to Honey Dog who immediately wanted to know what WERE we thinking? (Not that I knew.)   She was never impressed with the first Mal, let alone expressed any desire to put up with a second. After all, they are wooly like sheep, but just don’t act right when you try to herd them.  It has never occurred to her to think of them as another working breed, because pulling a sled is fun, not work, so what the heck good are they?  After some tentative introductions which quickly went south, we ended up compromising the living arrangements by giving the house to Honey Dog (she's a better housekeeper than Mom anyway), the yard to the Mals, and my husband and I moved into the garage....Seriously, we all sleep in the house, but the Mals do go into an outside run during the daytime. They simply don’t care to be alone in the house with the Baby when we aren’t home. We’ve been told it is because she herds them into a corner and lectures them about their shedding, drooling, food and treat stealing habits, as well as their perceived general laziness issues. Besides, they have recently started wanting to play with "her" toys, and she is not inclined to share.

But, I digress. Back to the individual war with Yukon. First, why not pee on the door jam sofa, or dishwasher (ewww)? Nobody else has, so it NEEDS it, because all territory has to be claimed.  Leave me outside if you don’t like it, I’m not a house dog!  Second, what is a bath, and why do I have to have one?  Of course I stink, I roll in all kinds of disgusting things for fun.  Why, because I’m not a house dog!  Third, who ARE you and why are you scraping me all over with that wire apparatus?  Of course I have hair, I am a mammal.  If you don’t like it, leave me outside, I’m not a house dog!  Fourth, what is plaque, and why should I care if my breath is kissably fresh or not?  I don’t want to kiss you anyway, I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU!  Just put me outside, for the love of muck!  There are way too many rules to remember at this house, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!  Sigh. Needless to say, he wasn’t the only one who was having a rough time adjusting.  Duchess was much easier.

The good news is, the boy liked food, and eat he did, with great gusto.  Of course, the first three days he was barely eliminating because he had been so underfed his little body was taking in everything it got.  Didn’t even know what a rawhide chew was, poor thing.  Also during that first three days I worked gently but tenaciously on his gnarled coat, and with every grooming tool never known to man (women have their secrets), trying to remove the burrs without taking out all the hair they were entangled in along with them, and combing out layers of impacted undercoat fuzz in his tail, seemingly permanently enmeshed there by the long, coarse guard hairs.  On the third day, when he finally did make a substantial deposit on the lawn, we celebrated by giving him a warm, happy (not!), sudsy bath in the house.  Black water.  I have never before seen truly black water come off even my husband, the mechanic, let alone a dog, and vocal protesting ensued at the top of his lungs as though he were losing his best friend instead of a little soil!!!  Seeing him soaking wet was very traumatic for me, as it was appallingly obvious how really skinny he was, his backbone and hips resembling bent coat hangers.  I was afraid if I held him too hard he would break.  I checked AKC standards for the breed: 24 inches at the shoulder and 85 pounds for adult males.  Yukon met the height quota plus one inch, but weighed only 68 pounds.  He looked very pretty, though, afterwards, all fluffed and combed.  Then, the vet visit the next day...it didn’t go too badly from the vet’s standpoint, but Yukon was less than thrilled with the whole thermometer thing.  Other than the weight issue, however, he was given a clean bill of health.  Whew.

Another week went by and the housebreaking concept finally started to sink in.  He was also tolerating my incessant brushing better, since it no longer pulled at his skin.  All this handling, though, while adjusting to a new environment and kennel mates was hard on him, and he would watch me warily, head down and ears flat, wondering what new cleanliness horror I was going to inflict on him next.  (Vanilla doggie perfume? Don’t laugh, I did it; breath mints too, the plaque thing was really out of control.)  He was tolerant of our constant petting--we were trying to reassure him--but it seemed like he was not necessarily enjoying it, and would lower his ears submissively and turn his head away.  Finally, after some discussion with my husband, we decided it would be best to let him decide when he was ready to love us, instead of trying to press the issue.

So, we gave him some space, simply supplying food, order, and company, touching him only when necessary.  He began to settle in and go with the flow.  Then, one evening, after making the mistake of trying to walk all three of my non-compliant and argumentative babies at once, I picked my way carefully over their now haggard and panting bodies sprawled all over my family room (even in a large room, a two-Malamute one-Border Collie rug arrangement will dwarf most of the floor space), and wondered aloud why we had taken on such a mess.  I threw myself down on the couch for a much earned nap, and, just as I closed my eyes, felt sudden, heavy pressure on my chest.  An instant later a large, soft, but very cold nose unceremoniously stuffed itself under my chin.  Too big for Honey Dog, and I could hear Duchess snoring at the end of the sofa; maybe the husband?   I opened my eyes to see.  Nope, not the husband.  A furry, broad, back and white head, ears fully erect, was resting itself on my chest.  Two big, soft brown eyes were staring at me intently.  I reached up and slowly stroked my fingers between them, watching them close contentedly, as Yukon sank down on the floor next to me and then rolled over for a tummy rub.  He stayed there by me for over an hour, nuzzling me and waving his paws and wooing every time my hand stopped moving.  He followed me everywhere I went the rest of the evening (he rarely leaves my side anymore when I am home).  Inside, my soul soared; I had finally won.....his heart.  Which in hindsight seems only fair; after all, he had mine from the first minute I saw him, long before his former owners were ever in a position to have to give him up.  It was simply meant to be, for the third time.