But I well remember those nights: the charged shadowy darkness, his warmth, the way he smelled, the sound of his sweet voice, his bubbly laughter. I miss it bad.
I told Michael many many stories, but the tales I remember most vividly were based on Jack London’s masterful The Call Of The Wild. “Sled Dogs,” Michael and I called it. Buck the Dog being kidnapped. Beaten for the first time. The boat ride to the Klondike. The exuberance of pulling a sled through deep snow. The taste of salmon. The fight with the evil Spitz. And finally: becoming a wolf. The call of the wild.
I am going to work up a few of these stories and post them here. Coming soon.