Alaskan Puppy

Okay, deep breath. Let’s talk about this. This thing currently chewing on my bootlace, the one that’s supposed to get me outside into the twenty-below-zero air. This tiny, inexhaustible ball of fluff and teeth and pure, unadulterated chaos. An Alaskan puppy. Man, I thought I knew what I was getting into. Ha! Famous last words, right? Especially up here.

The first time I saw her – yeah, it’s a girl, appropriately named Luna, because her eyes, even then, had this wild, moonlight sort of gleam – she was just a wriggling pile among her littermates. All legs, big paws she hadn’t quite figured out how to navigate yet, and a howl that could curdle milk from fifty yards. Not kidding. The breeder, tough old woman with hands like oak roots, just grinned. “They got the spirit,” she said, nodding at the squirming mass. Spirit? More like a contained tornado, I thought. But Luna… Luna had something extra. Maybe it was the way she tumbled over her brothers and sisters, landing with a surprised yip but immediately trying to clamber back up. Or maybe it was those eyes, already a startling blue, holding what looked like ancient wisdom mixed with utter puppy silliness.

Bringing her home was… an experience. The truck ride back to the cabin was a symphony of whimpers that escalated into indignant shouts every time we hit a bump. Clutching the carrier, feeling the vibration of that tiny, stressed body inside, I felt this ridiculous surge of protectiveness. Like, okay world, try messing with this one, you gotta go through me. And then, stepping out into the vast, quiet white of my yard, the absolute silence broken only by the wind and the distant, mournful cry of a wolf… releasing her from the carrier felt like unleashing something primal into an already wild place.

She hit the snowbank like she’d been born for it. Face first, a sudden stop, then a shake, a sneeze, and she was off again, tunneling through the soft powder, little tail a frantic flag waving above the surface. It was mesmerizing. This tiny creature, barely bigger than my forearm, already so perfectly adapted, so eager for this harsh environment. She didn’t shiver. She didn’t look lost or scared. She looked like she’d found her element. My boots, meanwhile? My boots were soaked through in five minutes.

The first few weeks were a blur. A beautiful, exhausting, frustrating blur. Puppy-proofing a cabin in the woods? Good luck. Everything’s wood. Everything’s chewable. That favourite worn leather glove? Gone. My best hiking socks? Shredded relics. The corner of the rug I inherited from my grandma? Now has distinctive, tiny teeth marks. It’s okay, I tell myself. Character. Adds character. (My grandma would probably haunt me.)

And the energy! Where does it come from? She’ll play like a demon for twenty minutes, a blur of fur and teeth, then drop like a stone, asleep in a bizarre, twisted posture that looks incredibly uncomfortable, snoring softly with little twitches of her paws as she dreams of chasing squirrels, probably. Then, BAM, awake again, full power, ready for the next adventure. Usually involving trying to eat something she shouldn’t. Like a pine cone. Or a rock. Or my finger.

House training in the Alaskan winter is… a challenge. You can’t just open the back door and let her wander. It’s too cold. The snow is too deep. So, bundled up like the Michelin Man, I’d trudge out with her every hour on the hour, through blizzards, through biting wind, under skies that might be black as pitch or suddenly ablaze with the Northern Lights. She’d be a little snow-covered puffball, shivering slightly only when standing still, doing her business surprisingly quickly (thank god) before wanting to immediately launch herself back into the snowbanks for fun. Me? I’d just stand there, freezing my backside off, watching her, a ridiculous, tired smile on my face. Because despite the lack of sleep, the chewed-up things, the constant vigilance, there’s this incredible joy.

It’s watching her discover the world. The first time she saw a moose from a distance – a huge, dark shape against the white trees. She froze, a tiny, rigid statue, then let out this surprisingly deep woof, a sound way too big for her body. The first time she experienced truly deep snow, disappearing almost completely except for her tail, then popping back up with a surprised look on her face. The way she stalks snowflakes, convinced they are tiny, edible bugs. It’s all new, all wonder.

And the bonding. That’s the real magic. It’s the moments when she’s finally tired, curling up in a warm heap against my side as I read by the fire. The wet, trusting nose nudge she gives me first thing in the morning. The pure, ecstatic greeting she gives me if I’ve been out for even ten minutes – like I’ve been gone for years and she thought I’d never return. There’s a depth of connection with a dog up here, I think, that’s different. You rely on each other. You face the elements together. Your lives are intertwined in a way that feels more fundamental. She needs me for warmth, for food, for safety. I need her for company, for laughter, for that stubborn, cheerful push to get outside even when the wind howls like a banshee.

People down south, they see a cute puppy. They see slobber and chewed shoes. They don’t see this. The resilience. The absolute, unwavering enthusiasm for life, no matter how harsh the conditions. They don’t see the potential already simmering beneath the puppy fluff – the strength, the intelligence, the loyalty that defines these breeds. An Alaskan puppy isn’t just a pet; it’s a piece of this landscape come alive. It’s the spirit of the wild, wrapped up in a furry package.

Teaching her things is another adventure. Sit? Sure, if there’s a treat involved, and if she wasn’t currently distracted by a dust bunny. Come? Debatable, depending on the perceived value of whatever she’s investigating versus the value of coming to me. Walk on a leash? Oh boy. It’s less a walk, more a series of sudden stops, frantic pulls, and attempts to eat the leash itself. Patience, I remind myself. These dogs are smart. Wickedly smart. Sometimes I think she’s not misunderstanding the command, she’s just negotiating the terms. “Okay, I’ll sit, but you gotta give me three treats, and maybe throw that squeaky toy right now.”

The sounds she makes are incredible too. Not just the barking and howling (oh, the howling!), but the little grumbles, the soft sighs, the happy little “a-roos” when she’s excited. She has this particular soft groan she makes when she’s settling down for a nap that just melts me. And sometimes, at night, when the coyotes are yipping somewhere far off, she’ll sit by the window, listening, her ears pricked, a low whine in her chest. Connecting with her wild cousins, maybe? Gives you chills, but in a good way.

She’s growing so fast. It seems like yesterday she could fit in my lap easily. Now? She’s a solid weight, all muscle and sinew starting to form beneath that impossibly thick coat. The clumsy puppy legs are finding their coordination. The play biting is (slowly, mercifully) decreasing. The eyes, those striking blue eyes, seem to see more, understand more. She’s not just a puppy anymore. She’s becoming a dog. My dog. An Alaskan dog.

Living with her is a constant reminder to stay present. You can’t worry too much about the future when there’s a puppy trying to steal your hat right now. You can’t dwell on the past when there’s an opportunity for a spontaneous snow romp. She embodies pure, joyful, slightly chaotic existence. And up here, in the quiet, sometimes lonely vastness, that’s something invaluable. She makes the cabin feel less empty, the long winter nights feel shorter, the challenges of this life feel… manageable. Even fun.

Sure, there are days I look at the mess, feel the nip of her sharp little teeth (even in play, they’re sharp!), hear the earsplitting bark that seems to vibrate through the very timbers of the cabin, and wonder what on earth I was thinking. Was I crazy? Probably. Is it worth it?

Yeah. Absolutely. Every single chewed-up sock, every frigid early morning potty break, every wrestling match on the floor. It’s all worth it. Because you get this incredible, loyal, beautiful creature who looks at you like you hung the moon, who thrives in this incredible, harsh place, and who reminds you, every single day, what it means to be alive and full of unapologetic joy. An Alaskan puppy. A handful? Definitely. A blessing? Without a doubt.