Growing up I had always had cats -- I knew next to nothing about dogs. After losing several cats to feline leukemia I just couldn't face owning another cat. One day I was looking at the puppies at a local mall petshop and saw the most beautiful dog I had ever seen. The sign said it was a Siberian Husky. I had never heard of the breed. When I told my future husband about the animal, raving for about twenty minutes about how beautiful it was, he hatched the idea of buying it for me for my birthday which was coming up in a couple of weeks. Well, of course, the pet store wanted some insane price for the dog so that was out of the question. I told my husband that it was not a good idea to buy from a pet store anyway. Still, I hope that beautiful little Siberian found a good home.
We ended up buying our first Siberian puppy from a family who had advertised in the newspaper -- a backyard breeder. This was not the best way to shop for puppies either but we were really quite ignorant about puppy shopping. Unfortunately the Internet and Sibernet-L did not exist in those days to educate us.
Mishka came to live with us at the age of 12 weeks. She was a happy, healthy pup with a grey and white coat and big brown eyes and we loved her immediately. She became the center of our lives -- she was such a happy, anxious to please, little puppy.
We still laugh over memories of our efforts to house train her. My husband, who had owned dogs as a kid (but never a Siberian), said we should reward her when we took her out to potty if she performed. He would give her a cookie when she did the deed. It wasn't long before Mishka would come and importune us to take her outside where she would dutifully squat and then look up with that big goofy Siberian grin as if to say "Well, I did it! Where's my cookie?" Then she would come inside and mess in the house. We couldn't figure out what was going on -- how come she was messing in the house when she had just been out? Finally we realized that she was just doing the squat part of the toilet operation. Obviously we had rewarded her too quickly and only managed to reinforce the squat part of the process. "Cookie," however, had become a very important word in her vocabulary and would remain so until the end of her days.
When she was 7 months old, August of 1979, my husband was working on the roof of a shed behind the house and Mishka was playing in the ivy nearby. Since no one had told us about the Siberian proclivity to wander we had not worried about her being loose in the unfenced back yard. She had always stayed close. But, of course, she was now at that age when the larger world calls. She disappeared that afternoon. We searched for her until dark and went to bed with heavy hearts still not knowing where she was. In the days and weeks after her disappearance we put ads in the newspaper, checked out the local pound and Humane Society and came up with -- nothing. No one had seen her. She seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Heartbroken we finally had to face the hard truth that she was apparently gone for good.
In September of that year we brought home another Siberian pup. This little girl was 8 weeks old, born on the 4th of July. She was black and white with beautiful blue eyes. We named her Sashka. By this time we were sadder but much wiser about Siberians. We took no chances with Sashka. She proceeded to live up to all that her birthdate implies -- a real firecracker -- and she was irresistable!
We had never planned to be anything but a one dog household but then the miraculous happened: in January of 1980 I received a phone call at the community college where I taught. The person on the phone said that she had found my dog wandering near the campus. Since the dog was wearing a rabies tag she was able to get my name and phone number from the dog pound. My first thought was that Sashka had somehow escaped from her pen so when I went down to the parking lot to meet the person who had found my dog I was expecting to see a black and white blue-eyed Siberian in the car. When she opened the car door I saw this incredibly scruffy, ragged looking BROWN-EYED dog. For a moment I was confused and then I noticed a small pink spot just above the dog's nose. It was Mishka!!! I was absolutely dumbfounded, then giddy with excitement. Our Mishka had come home!!
I took Mishka up to my office and called my husband. "You will never guess in a million years who I have here in my office!" When he finally surmised I was talking about a dog, not a human, he said "Sashka escaped again, huh?" "Nope, guess again. This dog has brown eyes." There was a long long silence and then in a wondering voice he said "Mishka?"
No matter how long I live I will never forget the day Mishka came home. We had to keep touching and hugging her to reassure ourselves that she was really, truly home. I'm sure she was quite bewildered by all this attention.
Sashka, of course, was not as thrilled as we were when we brought Mishka home. Mishka was a very different dog than the puppy who had disappeared five months earlier. She had grown up but she looked terrible. She was no longer the happy bright-eyed puppy but a somber, fearful adult. She still had her puppy collar on which was very tight. Thank heavens she did because it was her rabies tag that got her back to us. Her once beautiful soft fur was a mess: coarse, brindled, dull.
One memorable fight broke out at a family Thanksgiving dinner at our house. It has become part of the family lore. Since about ten family members had gathered at our home to celebrate the holiday the dining room table was expanded with all of the leaves and covered with my mother's lace tablecloth. My husband's grandmother's beautiful Haviland china and our best crystal and silver were all set out. And of course a big roasted turkey and all of the trimmings. We were in the process of serving the food when suddenly a horrible racket broke out at one end of the table.
The two Siberians, apparently disagreeing about who should get to sit closest to the table and edgy because of the irresistible aroma of turkey, were going at it tooth and claw. What made it worse is that one of their collars had caught by the buckle in the corner of the lace tablecloth and everything on the table started moving inexorably towards the end of the table!! An eternity seemed to pass while we all watched the china, crystal, turkey, etc. sliding by towards inevitable destruction while a tornado of fur and horrible snarls whirled at one end of the table. My husband was adding to the loud confusion by shouting unprintable words while he wrestled with, by now, two thoroughly enraged dogs. We finally managed to separate the two combatants and banish them to their pen to ponder their sins. Incredibly no china or crystal was broken thanks to some quick moves by the relatives although there was a rather conspicuous hole in the corner of the lace tablecloth. Of course, later that evening the miscreants were forgiven, allowed to rejoin the family, and were given their share of turkey.
Over the years we collected many stories from our association with these two characters. We took them with us on vacation and they were wonderful travellers and made many friends. Sashka was our vivacious little clown, Mishka our stately philosopher. When Sashka had worn herself out with her antics and was sound asleep, Mishka would lay awake for hours just watching the world go by, possibly pondering and finding the answers for deep philosophical questions.
Mishka died in October of 1991. She would have been 13 in January. Sashka followed her over the Rainbow Bridge three years later, a week after her 15th birthday.
These two girls gave us so many wonderful years and will always hold a very special place in our hearts. We have four Siberians now because Mishka and Sashka taught us to love and respect the quirks and strengths of the Siberian breed. Siberians aren't easy but they are worth all of the trouble they are so capable of creating. We can't imagine life without them.
"Please don't grieve for me so, old friend, I am still here. When the winter wind howls around the eaves and through the tall fir behind the house you'll hear me singing. You will feel the brush of my fur in the soft warm breezes that come with the spring. You will see my eyes in the summer skies or in the depths of quiet mountain pools. In the autumn I'll be just up the hill by the filbert trees watching the squirrels gathering nuts and when the snow falls silently and deep I'll be curled in a soft mound among the alders near the creek. As long as you remember me, beloved friend, I am here."
