Hound of the Huskyvilles

It is one of my favourite films, the Disney true life adventure story that is Eight Below.

The plot is centred on a sled dog team who have to be left in Antarctica after the Scientists and support staff leave due to an injury sustained by one in their party and as the extreme weather closes in.

It is a heart wrenching dilemna for the sled dog handler who after securing the eight faithful animals cannot return, due to a number of circumstances, for more than a year to see what has become of them.

The Disney version is actually based on true events which took place in the late 1950's when fifteen Husky dogs had to be left for more than 12 months and only two survived in the absence of their human helpers.

The Husky is a truly remarkable breed, hardy and resilient as well as possessing considerable stamina and brute strength.

In the harsh snow bound environments of the Poles they are in their perfect element with a dense and insulating coat, reserves of body fat and the genetic ability to resist the extremes of temperature for which Man is poorly equipped even with technology and science on his side.

A large animal such as the Husky can be ferocious and intimidating but that is what is required in a pack society with a strict hierarchy of superiority and dominance.

In the Eight Below movie the patriarch of the sled team, Old Jack, perishes when he is unable to shake off the chain and shackles. The senior female Maya takes over and masterminds the operation of survival against all the odds. There is tragedy, emotional success and salvation along the way as Max, Truman, Dewey, Buck, Shadow and Shorty fight against the elements, hunger and a huge aggressive seal in their search for food and shelter.

I admit to finding myself blabbing uncontrollably as the handful of surviving dogs out of the two Alaskan Malamutes and the six Siberian Huskies are reunited with their handler in a slabberingly joyous moment amongst the snowbound landscape.

I came across a Husky today in someones back garden in a quiet market town.

Named Zeus, he was a huge bulky hound, now getting on in years and not as active as he has obviously been. He was slumped up against the patio doors of the conservatory in the shadiest and coolest part of the garden.

I was introduced to Zeus by the householder. I hesitate to say owner or master because if you too saw the dog you would understand that he was very much his own boss and just tolerated the family that he permitted and tolerated to live with him.

I was initially wary after the homeowner said that although Zeus was quite placid he did, for some instinctive reason, "play up a bit" in the company of human male visitors.

I greeted the Husky and gave him a patronising pat on the head, a tweak of his ear and uttered the usual words of "what a fine dog" in an effeminate sing song voice. In most circumstances and with dogs of lesser calibre and pride that is more than enough to placate and reassure them that I am not in any way a threat.

My mistake with Zeus was to turn my back on him as I set about the purpose of my calling at the house.

This must have been seen as a snub to the Siberian breed and I felt a large clawed paw drawing down the back of my leg from upper thigh to just below the knee. It was a bit like a warning, the equivalent of a shot across the bows.

I turned around slowly to face Zeus who was now very up close and personal indeed. He was silent but his muzzle nuzzled up into my groin area and he took a deep inward breath. In the wilderness of ice fields and tundra that would be expected as a form of reconnaissance, a bit of a getting to know you better type of action. In the back garden of a detached house in Yorkshire it was a little bit sinister and scary.

Making eye contact is, I had read somewhere and at sometime, a good move with an animal of a wild bred background.

Zeus had, although it sounds a bit waffy, the most beautiful eyes that I have ever had the reason to look deep in to. Ice white they were, deep gloss coloured and with a fathomless depth to the dark pupils. I could theorise on their appearance being the result of millenia of natural selection and adaptation to the climatic rigours of their natural habitat.

I was actually thinking more along the lines that he was measuring me up to assess whether he could take me without too much of a fight or girly screaming.

I could see that the homeowner was quite enjoying the ritual, obviously a common occurence in the back garden with casual callers and strangers. I then realised that the ritual was not tribal, hierarchical or just dog versus man but Zeus fancied me.

Trust me to come across the only gay husky in Yorkshire.

We maintained a very close contact thereafter around the patio, the large bungalow sized dog run kennel structure and amongst the lawn and well stocked borders and flower beds. I thought it best to play along, act the patsy and humour the large amorous hound until I was near enough to the conservatory door, his previous resting place, to make an escape. It seemed to take an age to get to a safe refuge. Zeus must have thought it was great sport but his penetratingly ice cool eyes looked sad as I mouthed words to the effect that he was not my type from behind the double glazing of the house windows. I will remember my meeting with such a striking character of a dog for some time . I may even keep, as a momento, the receipt for the dry cleaning of my working suit which had suffered unfortunate collateral damage in the course of the whole encounter.