The husky who introduced me to the dog world

In the fall of my second year of college, we said goodbye to my first childhood dog.

His name was Larry. We got him when I was five years old, and he was a constant in my life for 14 years.

From little-kid romps around the apple orchard to my senior pictures, sick-day snuggles to backwoods camping trips, he watched me grow up… as I watched him grow old.

My entire family was devastated when we finally let him go. I wore his collar on my wrist for weeks afterward (until I became distraught that it had started to lose his scent). I’ve never seen my father cry like that before or since.

And just over two months after a container of ashes on a shelf replaced Larry’s paw prints on our carpet, we went to our local humane society to make our annual Christmas donation.

We were not looking for a dog. We still had Larry’s “sister”, Lucy, and two beloved cats. We told ourselves that our house was full — it would be a simple trip to spread some goodwill and maybe steal a few face licks. Nothing more.

But then I saw Snort.

Thick fur seeped through the chain links of her kennel as she pressed her entire body against the door, hoping someone would stop for a minute and run their fingers along her side.

She held her eyes mostly closed, but when she blinked them open the effect was nothing short of mesmerizing: bright blue lights amidst a strikingly dark face.

I sat on the floor with her for what felt like an hour.

This was not the time to get a dog, I knew — I still had more than a full year of school left, and none of the campus apartments were particularly pet friendly — but I was smitten at once.

Siberian huskies were my childhood dream dog. In the fourth grade, at nine years old, I’d written my first “novel”.

Cyber was about a lost husky finding his way home after his dog-hating neighbor dumped him out in the woods.

What the plot lacked in plausibility, it made up for in 300+ pages of pure enthusiasm. From the moment I started writing it I had my heart set on my future companion.

I would get a male Siberian husky — black and white, with one blue eye and one brown — and I would name him Cyber. We’d be the best team anyone had ever seen.

But the only thing that made Snort like Cyber was her breed. She was tan and gray instead of black. She had a “dirty” face instead of the classic husky mask I’d come to admire. Both of her eyes were blue. She was painfully shy in contrast to Cyber’s almost-obnoxious bravery.

She was almost nothing like the dog I’d fallen asleep dreaming up as a child — but I still swore she was perfect.

Looking back, I was enamored with Snort for many of the “wrong” reasons. I’ve realized now that my lifestyle is more suited to herders than northern breeds. I doubt I’ll ever get a husky puppy like I once planned.

But naivety aside, oh how thankful I am that we met our snow dog on that cold December day.

Snort had been abandoned by her breeder the summer before we met her because of an unidentified health problem.

No one wants to buy puppies from a sick mom — so after having one litter, she became the responsibility of the Humane Society of Marathon County.

After months of specialist vet appointments and painstaking care, the shelter staff learned that Snort had severe keratoconjunctivitis sicca. In plain English, that means that her eyes make almost no tears.

Her KCS leaves her vulnerable to vision loss, pain, scratching, and scarring. It requires lifelong intensive treatment — and that’s how the placard hanging on Snort’s kennel came to read “Special Needs. Not up for adoption.”

We took her into a visiting room anyway. What’s the harm in giving her some love, right? She warmed to us quickly, though we had to be careful not to make any fast movements or too-loud noises.

Within minutes, I looked around at my family and saw I wasn’t the only one with a serious heartache for this beautiful dog.

We talked to the shelter staff about her condition. What exactly did it mean? What might happen in the future? (Most likely complete eye removal and blindness in an uncertain number of years.) How expensive were the multiple-times-daily eye drops?

Were we equipped to handle Snort and her needs? And did we want to?

Maybe.

Our oldest cat was in chronic kidney failure, and we were committed to infusing her with subcutaneous fluids every other day. We’d done everything we thought we could for Larry up until the heartbreaking end.

Our pets had always been family, through and through — and we were extremely privileged to be able to give them the care they needed.

As we talked, the shelter staff opened to the idea of us becoming Snort’s new family.

I was the Young most invested in the idea of adopting Snort.

I was also the most ill-equipped family member to take care of her — living hours away from my parents’ house on a college campus with a variable schedule did not lend itself well to being responsible for another living creature.

But I couldn’t let this snow dog go. I was utterly obsessed.

I reasoned that my parents could take care of Snort for the next year and a half, just until I graduated in May 2018. Then Snort would come live with me, and we’d take on the world.

Looking back, it’s obvious that 19-year-old me hadn’t come up with the most realistic plan. At the time, though, I was completely consumed by Snort’s sweet disposition and poor lot in life — and I’ll never regret following my heart here.

We had a lot of family discussions over the next few days.

I built a Powerpoint presentation and conducted a copious amount of breed research on top of my pre-existing knowledge. We all watched videos of double enucleation surgery, trying to see if we’d be prepared to carry Snort through that difficult reality of losing her eyes. We deliberated endlessly.

Finally, on Christmas day, we put in our adoption application.

The next month and a half felt endless as we went through the adoption process.

Snort had more specialist appointments so we could be sure what we were getting into. We visited the shelter when we could. I spent every day in class dreaming of the shy Siberian waiting for me in a shelter kennel back home.

We officially adopted her on February 2nd, 2017 — exactly four months after we said goodbye to Larry.

The next years changed me like nothing else.

Though I spent weekdays studying on my beloved college campus, my heart was in my hometown with Snort.

I visited every weekend for over a month when we first brought her home. I spent spring break running, training, and loving with her. I sought out a local summer internship so that I could live at my parents’ with her.

We worked hard to build a bond with our snow dog — and though the going was slow at first, she quickly filled a space in my heart I didn’t even know I had.

After teaching Snort to heel, I read every dog training article I could get my hands on. For the first time in my life, I started to realize how fulfilling, how amazing, how overwhelming it was to communicate with another species.

Larry and Lucy were wonderful to grow up with — but Snort was my first foray into actual training. Into truly responsible ownership. Into this vast, overwhelming, delightfully complex world of dogs.

All of a sudden, I saw possibilities I had never considered.

When the fall semester of my senior year of college arrived, I was devastated to leave my local internship and snow dog behind. I craved graduation and the promise that she would be just mine… but over Thanksgiving break, I came to realize that wasn’t fair.

Sure, I was the one who wanted her first. I’m the one who did most of the reading, who sat in the snow by her side for hours when we first brought her home, who got everyone else on board.

But my parents are the ones who made the biggest sacrifices. They are the ones who covered expensive vet bills, who adjusted their schedules to give medications, who dealt with everything I couldn’t when I was away.

And in the process, they fell in love, too. Snort wasn’t just my dog — she was ours. All of ours.

It broke my heart, but her life was at my parents’ house, running on open land, having enough humans with different schedules to make sure she always got her meds on time.

She was finally comfortable after what felt like months of adjusting, and I couldn’t take that away.

So Snort stayed a family dog — and true to her title, she brought our entire household closer together. She gave my mom and dad joy even in the midst of losing our first two family dogs.

She has been more than I ever imagined.

And she made space in my life for another dog.

When I graduated and life called me to move out of my parents’ home once and for all, I missed Snort with my entire being. I visited her every chance I got.

And I knew that someday, I would get another dog who I’d love just as much.

A dog who would truly be my own.

A dog who, though I didn’t know it at the time, I would meet at the very same shelter I met Snort. Around the very same time of year. With a similar shy disposition, breathtaking coat, and pointy ears that made my heart ache.

A dog I would name Scout.

A dog who would change my life yet again, challenging me in new ways.

Everything that has happened after Snort has been, fundamentally, because of her.

I owe my family’s husky for my love of dog training, my commitment to being a responsible owner, and my willingness to consider new perspectives. I owe her for so much of who I am not just as a “dog person” but as a human being.

In many ways, I owe her for Scout — and Scout owes her everything.

Snow dog Snort will always be my first reason “why”.