I’m finally back home to Montana after five weeks on the road, driving over 8,000 miles with my three dogs stretched out across the passenger seats of my tiny Toyota Rav.
My sled dog, Borage, and trusty terrier, Jigs are very familiar with the road-trip routine. But many things still seem strange and foreign to Pig, my 10-year old, newly-retired, Iditarod lead dog.
After all, Pig just became an indoor, “pet” dog only a few months ago. Walking through doorways and up stairs, sleeping on a dog bed, driving in a car are all peculiar and exotic experiences for Pig. She investigates slippery linoleum floors, thick shag carpet, mirrors, toilet bowls, smelly trash cans, humming dishwashers, flashing televisions, and stuffed animals with intense curiosity - like she’s an alien who’s just stepped foot on a freaky, new planet.
I’m proud of Pig; she’s catching on fast. But there’s one obstacle continuing to give her headaches - literally.
In November, my furry menagerie and I camped out at my parents’ neat and clean suburban Indianapolis home while I did Iditarod presentations in the local schools and libraries. We were there for Thanksgiving. I spent the day cooking my first turkey with all of the fixings for my parents and family. The three dogs, thrilled to have a break from the road, ran and played and snoozed in the spacious backyard.
At one point, I decided to let all three dogs into the house so I could slip out the back door to run to the store; the dogs think of my car as their home and they get upset when they see me leave without them. My mom said they could nap in the living room until I returned.
I called the dogs into the house; my terrier led the charge through the kitchen into the dining room. Borage followed on Jigs’ heels. Pig brought up the rear.
As soon as Pig rounded the corner into the living room, I knew what was on her mind. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to stop the impending disaster. Pig ran at full-speed towards the giant picture window with her head held high, her huge, pointy ears aimed forward, her eyes fixated on the blue sky and clouds and maple tree in the front yard.
My mom’s plants and figurines were displayed on an antique, wooden stereo console directly in front of the picture window. Pig leaped into the air, landed on top of the stereo, and glided across the smooth top taking out the plants and collectibles in her path. She finally came to an abrupt halt when her hard head met the thick glass with a resounding “thud” that brought everyone from all over the house running into the room.
Like a confused bird that just flew into a window, Pig slid down the glass and wall and was trapped behind the console. I leaned over the stereo and pulled her free. Her eyes were wide open and blinking, her tiny body limp like a rag doll.
“Does she do this at home?” my mom and dad asked me. They stared at the dirt and plants and ceramics scattered all across the new carpet. I wasn’t sure who was more stunned - Pig or my parents or me.
“Never,” I said. “I guess it’s not an issue when you have filthy windows.”
Glass continued to be a problem for Pig.
When my dad forgot Pig was in the house and opened the front door, she plowed straight into the glass storm window.
I took Pig to the veterinarian in Indy for a simple check-up. The waiting room was clear glass from floor to ceiling. When Pig saw the other dogs sitting inside the building, she ran to greet them, slamming into the clear pane once again.
The other owners and dogs looked at Pig like she was crazy.
“She doesn’t do windows,” I explained as I carried Pig through the front door.
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