Me and Mo

Me and Mo

I’ve always grown up with dogs. My dad seemed to have a tendency towards owning German Shepherds. As a result, much of my childhood playtime included a large, four-legged companion. My Dad’s first Shepard, Eric, combined the protective home security of a sphinx with the gentleness of Lassie. As an infant, I would crawl the hairy hill of his body, up over his head, and down the other side via a red, wet tongue. He put up with such annoyances rather well, I am told. However, this dog’s over-protective, genetically programmed instinct to guard his pack and his territory was both a blessing and a curse. A relaxing jog with my Dad’s buddies was not always so relaxing. Eric would run in between the two men, separating them, and flash his teeth if the partner merged too close to his human. Soon my Dad found that Eric would be his only running partner.

One of my first memories that I can remember was bringing home a German Shepard puppy from a breeder somewhere in the farmlands of Nebraska. I was three years old. I thought “Butterpeppersalt” was a perfectly good name for him, but settled on a simplified “Pepper.” I must have just discovered condiments at that time. This dog was one of the most intelligent dogs I have ever known. I think that he could have learned to drive a car if he had opposable thumbs. He was a most gentle dog, especially for a Shepard. Yet, the hunting instinct was strong in him. He brought home all kinds of animals to display for us. Rabbits, opossums, a pig’s head (remnants of the neighbor’s barbeque) and a cat from down the street. The dead cat was especially terrifying for me as a twelve-year old boy. After I explained what had happened to my Dad, I was left with the morbid task of breaking the news to the cat’s elderly owner.

Pepper and I spent countless playtime hours together down at the nearby park and in the creek behind the golf course. We built forts, swam through the murky water, evaded make-believe pursuers and fought dragons together. I was 15 when he died, twelve years after my first memory of him. Part of me died with him then and I never really felt quite the same again.
Nearly ten years went by before I had another canine in my life. My logical side told me that I was too busy with graduate school and running a university’s outdoor program to be able to train and raise a puppy. This was several years before I met my wife and I wanted a companion. I wanted some ”body” with which to share travels and experiences with. Years went by and a less busy life was not materializing. Regardless of all that, I think that the time was right when I found “Mo.” No matter how busy I thought I was, the important thing, overall, was to find that which would add joy to my life. I had to listen to that call.

I found Mo on a small farm in eastern Nebraska. I had learned about an available litter of black lab puppies from the local whole foods co-op. I was not expecting to bring home a dog that day. I just wanted to take a look at them. It was an overcast spring morning. I drove out into the country with a peculiar feeling that this day was somehow different. It was similar to the feeling I experienced on the day that my wife and I had our first date. There was a house, barns and tractor equipment about the place. The farmer had two Labrador Retrievers, one black and one chocolate, which he used as bird hunting dogs. These two had a litter of eight black puppies. I did not see the mother. She was off somewhere in the fields. However, I did see the father who looked healthy and muscular. I asked if I could see the litter, which slept over in the barn. Anticipating my question, the farmer pointed in the intended direction. I walked over, opened the creaking barn door and immediately paws and small puppy heads, groping on top of one another, squeezed themselves through the narrow opening. Then, the door swung wide and puppies ran out helter-skelter into the open, disrupting the tranquil space. The atmosphere was instantly transfixed into a buzzing, romper-room of activity. Everyone at some point in life should witness a scene like this.

The puppies clumsily stammered about, knocking into one another. It brought me the strongest feeling of freedom, joy and humor to witness the melee. I tried to meet and examine them all. There was one female, who seemed skittish, and six males who were too occupied with the interests of their brothers to acknowledge my cooing. However, when I called, “C’mere, puppies!” Mo ran and leapt into my arms. I trusted his judgment over mine in picking a companion at this point. In fact, there have been several occasions in the mountains and in the desert when I was not completely sure of the way home and trusted in his instincts to get us back on route. As I drove home Mo fell asleep instantly in my lap. He was an awkward football-sized mass that smeared me with mud. Instantly, a human-canine bond was initiated, one as old as when hunter-gatherers first bonded with the wolf.

Naming a pet is not always easy. At the time I was studying a lot of eastern philosophy in graduate school. “Myoho” or “Mo” seemed like a good name to me. “Myoho” comes from the Japanese Sanskrit phrase, “Nam myoho renge kyo,” roughly translating into meaning devotion to the mystic law of cause and effect through meditation. I thought the cause and effect relationship between him and myself an appropriate reason for his name. I have often thought that the happenings in our lives are due to particular choices or previous causes which we have made. In essence, we are the accumulation of all our past thoughts, words and actions. There is really very little coincidence in our lives if we are able to see the entire picture. Additionally, I doubt that it is coincidence that brought Mo and I together.

Labrador Retrievers were originally bred in Newfoundland to retrieve fisherman’s nets from the icy waters of the north Atlantic. Now labs are notorious for many things: bird hunting, drug sniffing, search and rescue, seeing-eye dogs, etc. I wanted a dog that was a strong swimmer, one that would make a good river dog. Mo’s first water experience was the same day that I brought him home from the farm. I immediately took him to the lake. I thought that seeing as though he is a water dog, he would naturally wish to explore a large body of water as soon as feasibly possible. He and I walked down the hill to the lake as the water lapped slowly onto the shore. Mo seemed afraid at first. He had never seen such an open expanse of water before him. Perhaps the most water he had ever seen in one place was the horse tank on the farm. He warily crept up behind my legs and peered out to one side. I then walked down into the water myself, splashing it around with my feet as if to prove that it was indeed just water and it was okay. Mo strode towards me, sticking one paw cautiously in first, then the other. Within minutes the correct synapses began firing in his little brain. Instinct started kicking in as hundreds of years of breeding were then displayed. Soon he was all the way in and imitated my actions in the water. Finally, he was swimming in the deepest parts of the lake.

Mo was an easy dog to house train. The next day he went #2 on the downstairs cement floor. Anticipating this, I researched this training chore as much as I could before hand. I had a vinegar and water solution nearby. I immediately grabbed him by the scruff of the neck with a verbal reprimand and sprayed some of the vinegar solution on his mess. The vinegar smell was repugnant to him. This episode combined with positive praise reinforced with treats of bacon when he did go to the bathroom outside helped him make the connection. He never had an accident indoors again.


Leash training was easy with Mo also. After some initial hesitation, he took to it quickly. The first time, like all puppies do, he squirmed disgustedly at the uncomfortable feeling the leash provided. For a week we worked only on the “heel” and “sit” command. I was sure to keep his shoulder in line with my knees as we walked (as this was the wisdom of the resource books and people of Pet Smart). We soon advanced to a choke collar and later to the one with the spiky teeth. This is an excellent teaching tool. To look at it reminds me of a dungeon keeper’s torture device. It simulates the biting of the neck, which in the order of the pack, establishes dominance. Since we as humans cannot effectively get down on all fours and bite our dog’s mane, this collar is the next best thing. Mo always paid attention when this was on him and eventually all I would have to do is to shake the links for him to heal or sit.

Mo was still only a few months old when we walked downtown together the first time. I wanted him to get used to being around people and people’s things early on. I have always thought that the more experiences he could have as a puppy, the calmer he would be later. Mo was wide-eyed when we came to a busy intersection on the sidewalk in downtown Lincoln. He must have been surprised to see the traffic, loud buses rumbling down the street, the crowds of people and all the smells. The smells! Canine olfactory senses are much more acute than humans, nearly a thousand times stronger. Dogs have the ability to smell one part of urine in one million parts water. Imagine all the scents he must detect in the city street! Despite the entire surrounding stimulus he was able to pay attention and heal with me like a champ.

When Mo was nearly one year old I took him and a canoe from work to the city lake. My hope was to familiarize him with boats, open water, and their relationship with one another. This was a trial run for a six-day fishing trip I was planning to the Boundary Waters Wilderness in Canada. We were to leave in a few weeks. Mo excitedly jumped into the canoe and I paddled away from the shore. At first, he seemed concerned about the unstableness of his new world. I let him pace back and forth, climbing over the thwarts in the boat. More sauntering ensued, like a farm dog in the back of an over-powered pickup truck that paces from side to side investigating passing cars and signposts. However, he quickly eased and relaxed onto the bottom of the canoe. After paddling around for about an hour I felt we would be fine living out of this craft together during our week-long romp in Canada’s fishing haven.

Mo spends a lot of time airborne. He launches himself over sagebrush and downed logs as he tracks the scents of rodentia. Vegetation is not likely to get in his way. There have been times that I have pulled twenty prickly-pear cactus barbs out of his face in the desert. He never made the mistake of sticking his nose into that plant again. He has also gotten into thick vegetation that has taken me a whole summer to completely remove all the burrs for his fur. He is always easy to spot. All I have to do is look for the bush or small tree with the shaking branches and leaves and I know that it is Mo tracking a scent. I sometimes wondered if I was not allowing Mo to live up to his potential. I think he could be a great hunting dog if I were to train him to be such a dog. I know he has the hunting genes inside him. I think there may be a lot of untapped ability waiting to be extracted under the right circumstances and with the right instructor. He is naturally a good flushing dog and would be a great pointer dog with some training. Unfortunately, I am not a hunter myself and he has to suffice with hunting sticks and tennis balls, which he retrieves to me with fervor.

I knew I wanted a dog big enough to carry a backpack. If Mo were to accompany me into the mountains he would have to learn to carry some gear. Since I wanted him to be a pack dog this task would put a damper on his airborne acrobatics. A backpack would hinder his freedom of movement in this respect. However, I knew that my own pack already tests the limits of my vertebrae when it is loaded down with climbing and backcountry gear. I was not about to add ten more pounds of puppy chow to my pack, which was already bursting at the seams. Plus, I thought, “What good is a large dog going to be if he can’t take a little of the load?”

I wanted him to get used to this way of thinking early on. The vet explained that an adult dog could carry up to 20-25% of its total body weight, although dogs should not carry a load until their bodies have had some time to develop. When Mo was six months old, I obtained a good dog pack for him. I was skeptical at first, yet hopeful of the outcome. I would start out with no weight - just the empty pack. We would work up to a heavier load as he grew older. The pack was made of two nylon pouches, fastex buckles and straps that would attach around his abdomen and blocky chest. The nylon zippered pouches would hang down on either side of his torso like panniers. When I introduced it to him, he sniffed it up and down curiously.

Trial use of the pack was in the Collegiate Mountain Range in central Colorado. I had just finished kayaking for three days on the Arkansas River and now Mo and I would hike together for a few days in the mountains south of the river. I placed the empty pack on him, without gear, so he could get used to the feel. Instantly, Mo squirmed in his energetic puppy way at the feel of the foreign device attached to his back. He appeared extraordinarily distraught because he could not reach his head far enough to the side to see how it was attached and exactly how to remove it. He walked about ten feet in this manner then plopped over on his side and rolled on his back trying to squirm out of its uncomfortable grasp. After two more attempts like this I gave up and took it off. Mo had won. This time.

It wasn’t until several months later, when Mo was older, that he became used to his pack. Mo was about ten months old when we were on a seven-day trip in the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming. This was actually a scouting trip for work. A co-worker and I were looking for a good location to hold the climbing and hiking section for our staff training. This time Mo did not reject his load. He packed his share of food along with our stove and water. He worked like a champ. Now, whenever I pull his pack out from the back of my truck he wags and wiggles his body with anticipation of a new adventure.

I knew I wanted a water dog to accompany me on rafting and kayak trips. A lab seemed like the logical choice for this lifestyle. I did a lot of research early on when picking out my pup. Because Labradors were bred to retrieve fishermen’s nets in the icy waters of northeast Canada, they have a few built-in adaptations. They are conveniently equipped with an oily water-wicking undercoat and webbed feet. Incidentally, their webbed feet also act as effective snowshoes when running through deep powder. Despite all his natural cold-weather outfitting, I still helped him out during some of the coldest winters outside. When sleeping in the snow, I would supplement his fur coat with a down vest I found at the goodwill. I cut four inches down the back of the collar to allow for the girth of Mo’s neck. He did not like wearing it much. Much of the time would stand with a lowered head and look at me with hopeful eyes that I would soon take it off. He felt especially self-conscious around other dogs when wearing the garment as it made him look like a yellow Twinkie with black legs.

Mo’s first rafting experience was on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho. My wife, Kristen, and I were still dating at this time and we had planned a seven-week road trip that took us from Virginia to the Pacific Ocean and back again, making stops to kayak and climb in Colorado, Idaho, Oregon and the Grand Canyon. It was a most awesome adventure. Being together in close quarters, 24-7, for seven weeks solidified the bond between Kristen and myself. It was just her, me, the Mo and a carload of gear. At times, Mo would have to clamor on top of the pile of sleeping bags, kayak helmets and ice axes in order to get room in the back seat. Then his head would hang down onto our shoulders as we drove if it wasn’t outside the window, ears and tongue flapping in the wind.

We launched on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River July 1st, 1999. This was a gem of western whitewater. The river trip was an eight-day float until it finally conflued with the Main Salmon River and our take out. The Main Salmon was dubbed “The River of No Return” by the Lewis and Clark expedition because it provided no safe return passage for them due to its treacherous rapids. I started out kayaking through the class III-IV whitewater while Kristen and Mo navigated the raft. Fortunately, I brought Mo’s doggie PDF (personal floatation device) that fastened around his chest and back. It conveniently had a grab loop like a suitcase handle so the dog could be lifted up out of the water should he go for an unexpected swim.

The giant rubber raft must have seemed so strange to him. It apparently careened out of control through the waves and hydraulics. Each obstacle would jolt the raft violently and spray the occupants with chilly water. I think Mo would have preferred to take his chances swimming rather than riding on the oar rig. However, Kristen had everything under control and I was having a blast in the kayak surfing and squirting through the rapids. After that first day Mo mellowed out. He claimed the back of the raft as his own (behind the rower) and sat, paws crossed, looking out from side to side as we floated down river. He might have thought he was Captain Meriwether Lewis, exploring the west for the first time. Soon, he became complacent with the constant rapids and refused to seek a more secure stance during the bigger whitewater despite Kristen’s urgings.

Eventually, the raft would hit a falls big enough to rock his world. As the bow of the raft went through a hydraulic, the stern went down into it. Then, when the raft passed over, as is common with this type of craft, the stern bucks up sharply. As this happened, Mo was ejected straight into the air. Our companions and I estimated that he was launched about ten feet into the air. Wide-eyed he came splashing down into the river and had to swim the rest of the rapid before Kristen could haul him back into the raft. He has had many river trips since the Middle Fork and now is a veteran river dog.

Before Kristen and I were married she took me down to Florida to visit her family. This is where Mo first learned about salt water. We traveled the two hours from their house to Daytona Beach for a day of surf kayaking. As we drove into the state park by the beach, Mo perked up and began to shake uncontrollably. This was his usual behavior when he anticipated an upcoming game of fetch. It was as if he knew what we were going to do before we even got there. Even before he saw the water he knew swimming and retrieving was in his immediate future. Maybe he could understand some of our human language. Maybe he recognized patterns of behavior. Maybe he could sense what we were thinking by the energy we gave off. I think this was what people meant when they said that dogs could “smell” fear (or swimming in this case).

I found some driftwood on the beach and extracted from it a log just right to throw for optimum distance. I walked to the water and wound up to huck it into the surf. As I released it, Mo sprinted towards its landing zone in the ocean. Mo always likes to get a drink of water while he is working. He usually does this by dropping his head close to the water and letting his lower jaw scoop the water into his mouth as he sprints by. He is also effective at doing this with snow. Such was the case this time. However, when the salt water went down his throat he sputtered, hacked and shook his head from side to side like he had licked a porcupine. He looked at me in dismay, “What cruel trick is this?” He forgot about the floating stick for the time being. He needed further confirmation that this was indeed some strange devil-water. Mo lapped up another mouthfull of salt water, but only to elicit the same results.

He proceeded to fetch the log from the surf. The surf was not terribly high, but definitely over Mo’s head. Each time he went out for the log he would have to swim through the breakers to access it. After several successful attempts, he began to learn that if he waited a little bit, the current would bring the log closer in to shore, much reducing his labors. The next time I threw, he would sprint towards the water and stop, as if he were aborting his mission, just before the first breaker would crash down onto the sand. Then, when the log came within an acceptable distance, he would swim through the surf, clamp it in his jaws and bring it to me. I have to give him points for problem solving.

Kristen and I have spent much time at a small cabin in Colorado. The cabin has electricity and water, during the summer months, but is still very rustic. We have to shut off the water before the first freeze of fall (usually in September) lest the water pipes break. I’ve chopped a lot of wood there. There was an outhouse over by the tool shed. The cabin was seven miles into town. Nowhere else have I experienced such peaceful stillness as in that little cottage tucked away back in the pine forests. Mo had every ground squirrel in a 20-foot radius of the cabin staked out. Often times, from within the cabin, I would hear him sprinting off the deck in pursuit of an inattentive ground squirrel. Each time, the squirrel would flee for its life up its tree trailing high-pitched utterance of disgust. Mo never was fast enough to catch one, but he felt it was his duty to always try.

There was a creek nearby, about a five-minute walk down a gravel road from the cabin. We frequently walked by this rippling brook on our way down to the moraine to watch the elk in the evenings. One day Kristen and Mo did this walk, like they did everyday, but this time it would change how Mo looked at squirrels forever. Mo was on leash as they walked together in unison down the road. Mo wagged his tail in anticipation of fetching at the stream. Then the most bizarre thing happened. An unlucky ground squirrel darted in front of Mo’s path. In less than a second, Mo bent his head down and scooped the squirrel up into his mouth. Two pair of squirrel legs extended out from under the flaps of Mo’s jowls on either side of his mouth. Wide-eyed, Mo looked up at Kristen in disbelief. “After all these years I have finally caught one!” he must have thought to himself. Horrified, Kristen yelled, “Drop!” Mo looked back up at her and it was clear that he did not want to relinquish his prize, not after years of chasing the vermin. “Drop!” Kristen insisted. Reluctantly, Mo lowered his head, dropped his jaw and the furry mass rolled off his tongue and onto the ground. Amazingly, the squirrel seemed to be okay, although disoriented and covered in slobber. Then it lurched in a semi circle, ran into Mo’s front leg and fell over. Mo rolled his eyes at Kristen as if to say, “Oh, pu-leeze!” Eventually, the luckiest squirrel in the world regained its bearings and ran off in a trail of dog saliva. I’m sure he will retell his near-death experience to his children for years to come.

There was an over abundance of elk at and around the cabin. They would walk right past us and seemed to not be bothered by our presence there. After all, the elk knew that they were the ones who really owned the mountains. Mo was especially distraught at times like these. He was torn between his duty to protect the humans and the massive size of a bull elk. He sat on the deck and seemed to know that he would probably be skewered if he challenged one of them. The herds did not fear predators because they had protection by their sheer number. There were so many elk that in town traffic would stop and may have to wait up to ten minutes for the herd to pass. At the golf course in town, golfers would add one par to each hole due to the numerous elk droppings on the greens. The elk were especially loud in the fall. Late September and October was mating season. Their bugle was a hollow, eerie sound, but beautiful at the same time. Bull elk bugled to attract mates, keep their harem together and also as a warning of any potential danger. Often, this bugling could go on all night. I once called out in a sleep-deprived state to them, at two in the morning, but they did not seem to acknowledge me.

One particular male led his harem down the hill, past our cabin and onto the moraine for water each afternoon. This elk was huge. It had a 16-point rack and was bigger than a horse. He was a regular in our neighborhood. One day, this particular elk walked down the hill behind the cabin, as he usually did, and stopped in the moraine. Snow was lightly falling and absorbed all sound, as falling snow does. He stood still, ankle deep in snow, for an hour enabling Kristen to paint a most excellent picture of him. He seemed to have an affinity for Kristen despite her assurances to him that she was not his type. Eventually, Mo learned to accept the elk. Instead of raising his hackles and growling he learned to just watched them. In time, they developed a very peaceable coexistence together.

Black bear, coyotes and mountain lions also inhabited the mountains. I made a point to keep Mo in a shelter at night. Every now and then I would read about people in town who left their poodle or house cat outside overnight only to be snatched up by a mountain lion as a midnight snack. One night in June, Mo and Kristen were house sitting for some friends. I was out of town working a kayak course in Utah. This particular night, around midnight, Kristen heard footsteps outside on the deck. Immediately Mo’s ears perked up and he uttered a most scorching, hellish growl at the door. The footsteps didn’t sound like a person, but were slow, heavy and deliberate. Kristen grabbed Mo by the scruff of his neck and went into the bedroom. Kristen could hear alternating footsteps slowly arc around the side of the house and up onto the front deck. Then there was a creak of wood as the door was tested. The creature outside was pushing on the front door! Kristen heard the metal latch of the door clink from the nudge applied from outside. Then Kristen heard the creature’s lopey gait wander off the porch, around the side of the house and nudge the backdoor. It seemed to be testing all possible entrances.

Kristen was thoroughly freaked out at this point. Mo’s growl alternated with occasional whimpers. He could sense that the being outside was much stronger and more “wild” than himself. Then they heard a thud and creak of the ceiling slats as they supported the thing’s weight from above. The creature had jumped onto the roof! It must have climbed the rock pile outside and made the ten-foot leap onto the roof of the house. Kristen thought, at this point, that it must be a cat of some kind. The roof creaked again as it circled around a couple times then came to a rest on top. Mo was entirely pissed at this intrusion. Mo thought, “How dare it jump on my house?” Kristen stared at the ceiling with anxiety and Mo stared with aggravation of the situation and a feeling of helplessness. They waited in that room for most of the night until the cat grew tired, jumped down and wandered away. The next day Kristen learned that it was indeed a mountain lion by cross referencing the tracks it left in the snow with a book of rocky mountain mammals. The cat had remained on top of the house until four o’clock in the morning before wandering off to seek solitude from the oncoming daylight.

Kristen and I lived in Utah for a few years when Mo was four to five years old. One great thing about Utah is the excellent snow. Even the Utah license plates boast, “The greatest snow on earth.” One of my favorite spots to go backcountry snowboarding was in Little Cottonwood Canyon, a short jaunt up from Salt Lake City and across the valley from Alta. The great things about backcountry skiing and boarding are no crowds of people waiting in lift lines, deep and untouched powder, and remote, spectacular views. I felt more at peace out there. I would rather spend two hours hiking up a mountain in snowshoes for a 30-minute powder run rather than ride a man-made chair lift and descend a groomed run. Also, boarding in the backcountry meant that Mo could occasionally accompany me. Mo excelled on the hikes up, as he could stay well ahead of me with his four-wheel drive motoring up the snow slope. On the way down, however, he could not keep up with my snowboard and I would have to stop periodically to wait for him to catch up. Nonetheless, he bounded through the powder like an animal on a mission; he looked like a black mass plowing through the whiteness trailing a red tongue.

Kristen and I worked with “at risk” youth in the deserts of Utah for a year and a half. This was a program that took troubled youth out of their negative urban environments and brought them to the high desert of Utah. Here they could learn to live simply. They could learn to get their needs met in positive, productive ways and, at the same time, learn useful life skills. The students hiked together, built fires together, set up shelters together and grew together. The Mo, of course, came with us in the field. He was nearly four years old at this time. There were several reasons why a group of troubled teens in this environment would benefit from a canine companion. He became a therapy dog. Simple tasks, like feeding and brushing a dog, could elicit an amazing response from someone who has never had the opportunity of taking care of a living creature before. Also, some students just missed their pet back home. A sense of ownership and responsibility was created. Eventually, students wanted to take turns feeding him each day. Mo was also a motivator to the unmotivated. I remember Sam, the small fourteen year-old from New York with behavioral and emotional problems. He thought himself to be thoroughly unable to accomplish even the smallest tasks in our group. Getting up in the morning was a chore. Granted, it did, at times, take some coaxing to crawl out of our sleeping bags. It was especially hard when our tarps sagged low under the weight of newly fallen snow and getting up meant facing the rush of cold air. Some nights like this Kristen would wake up in the morning to find that Mo had eased onto her sleeping pad during the night and she had been forced off onto the ground. Sam, through a history of learned helplessness, would feign an injury whenever we had to hike, which was often. I would let him hold Mo’s leash and soon he would be at the front of the group high-stepping up the next mountain.
Keeping bears and other unwanted visitors out of camp at night was another chore assigned to the group dog. He did this job perfectly. He would also frighten away coyotes, mountain lions, white tail deer, killer rabbits, lost cows and the occasional student returning from the call of nature.
Mo was very good at not begging for food. I loved the fact that I could eat on the floor in front of him and he would not even acknowledge me. I found that a water gun was a most effective teaching tool for Mo as a puppy. After he performed an undesired behavior he would get a squirt from the super soaker followed by a stern verbal reprimand. After only a few incidents like this, the watery blast was no longer necessary and a simple “No beg!” sufficed. He would then slink away to entertain himself with other things. However, he did not always extend this courtesy to strangers. He was quite covert in this way. If he could get away with something then he would.

Most nights the students sat cooking around the fire and cooked their meals in 64-ounce coffee cans on top of the hot coals. Mo would sit patiently waiting for me to bring him his bowl of food. He always ate after the humans, as is consistent in the pack order of things. The alpha male should always eat first; in this case, me, the dog owner. If the dog eats first, then they can have a tendency towards entitlement. After all, who wants a spoiled pet?

He was sneakiest around dinnertime. One night, as students prepared their meal of beans and rice, Mo devised his master plan. Evidently he felt his dinner was somewhat inadequate and ventured to see what additional morsel he could find. The students sat around their fire, as they did every night. Their shadowy silhouettes from the fire danced on nearby juniper trees. Mo seized the opportunity to nonchalantly take a cooled can in his mouth, which rested next to an inattentive student. He warily carried his prize into the shadows where he proceeded to devour the contents by sticking his whole head into the can. When the students realized their dinner was missing, such an alarm was raised and a chase through the sagebrush ensued. After relocating under several additional hiding spots, Mo finally gave up his extra ration.

Now Mo is living more of an indoor life. We have moved into a house outside Portland, Oregon and he enjoys the luxury of sleeping on his very own cushioned dog mat made by Kristen’s mother. It is quite a step up for him. It is a cushy, fluffy dog mattress that one might order from a Martha Stewart catalogue. Kristen and I laugh at the absurdity of it. However, Mo seems to think it perfectly normal that he be entitled to such a bed and took to it without a second thought. I’ve learned a lot from his example; he can appreciate the little things in life. He also lives completely in the moment. Mo does not remember what he did yesterday. Nor does he worry about what tomorrow will bring. He simply enjoys the present and makes the most of it. Regardless of his quality of life at the moment, he always displays an attitude of humor, patience and loyalty. I look up to him for that. I like to think that I am deserving of his affections; he does not hold a grudge if I scold him for getting into the trash or tracking mud into the house. His love is unconditional. I like to think that I can grow to be a better person if I strive to be the person that my dog thinks I am.

Mo 1997 - 2011

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