He quickly received other names that stuck just as surely, "Beast" and "Bud".
Priest was a travelin' man. His favorite place was Green Lake, and if he was missing, could usually be found there, happily running along the lake with joggers. Once he saw a clear path, which to him meant a front door ajar, a human back turned for a second, or a leash dropped, he was off like a canine rocket, sometimes accompanied by his little brother Wicket, and the neighborhood got to know them both well, even the Italian restaurant whose kitchen they frequented. Our reputation as responsible dog owners dwindled rapidly and to this day I can't fathom how they navigated the busy Seattle streets without incident, even Ravenna Blvd.
His early successes with doggie destruction were legendary: wallets, shoes, money, wingchairs, belts, books, and anything remotely edible fell victim to his appetite. After ingesting an entire loaf of bread, the plastic bag that had housed it eventually emerged as well, with help. After that he was cagier, and anything left on a kitchen counter mysteriously vanished, although whatever wrapping it may have had was untouched. Many a sandwich or piece of toast disappeared so completely,the prospective diner was left wondering if they'd had a senior moment. Priest was the master of wide-eyed innocence.
For all his transgressions, he was so happy and lovable, forgiveness was easy. He loved his kitties, Oz, Ed, Fatty Lumpkin, Leo and Harley. When we went for walks in the evening, Oz the cat accompanied us, much to the amusement of the neighborhood, trotting along beside his dog. Learning to walk on a leash was not a simple matter, and more than once I ended up face down on the sidewalk if I wasn't paying attention. Sled dogs have strong shoulders.
When Priest was three, I returned to Phoenix with him, and the travelin' man was a good companion. I had to stop at gas stations frequently. He liked to catch the breeze from the passenger side window, and every 100 miles or so the back windows were obscured with dog drool. When we arrived in Arizona it was August and the first time I opened the door for him to jump out, he promptly jumped back into the seat and fixed me with a look I knew well. He adjusted, as I did, but regretfully I broke the promise I made to him that day: "it's just for a little while, Bud, we'll go back North soon."
No more "running the ridgelines" looking for that loose board in the fence that spelled freedom, fishing for "salmon" on my knee, dancing in anticipation of dinner, head rubs, laying beside me when I exercise, long conversations in huskytalk, watching "8 Below", dashing around with Marla, or gathering up pieces of his favorite toy, the dozens of Froggies that he so loved. My little house seems very empty, but my memory is very full and I was so lucky to have had his affection and companionship for 12 years.
If there's a husky heaven, Priest is running through snow, playing with Froggy and his cats and has all the Cheezits he wants. R.I.P., best friend.
