In honor of the triumphant Norwegian Olympic nordic skiers, this afternoon I donned my best red ski clothes and went out skiing. With the poodle. But it was not skijoring.
Now skijor is a Norwegian word, meaning "ski-drive." Basically, some animal pulls you around the ski trail. In Montana, people skijor with horses. In Minnesota and in Norway, people skijor with real dogs. Dog and people are smiling as the husky or malamute or Marmaduke strains ahead and runs like the wind.
I am stuck with the poodle. The willful, paranoid, psycho poodle. Who does not skijor. At least not for long.
This is the same dog who, when out for a walk on the city sidewalk, strains at the leash to the point of suffocating herself just to get out in front. Do not dare to walk in front of her, you will kill her.
Out on regular ski trails that wind through the forest, she's okay. But on the open fields of Lester Park golf course today, there was, in the words of Bob Dylan, "No direction home." What fun to run circles around your owner...and tie him up in the stretchie leash! What fun to stop for a massive dump right in the middle of a downhill run!
Finally we figured out that someone had to ski ahead and challenge her to catch up.
At the top of the Ninth Hole, with a big view down to Lake Superior, we paused to soak in the sun and the scenery. The older son skied away and ahead, almost out of sight but not quite. Chloe watched him go. Then, with the target of a beloved boy in sight, it was time to run. I had the best 20 seconds of my whole winter as dog and I careened down the fairway toward the clubhouse and the lake.
Then she got all crazy again as all four of us people regathered at the clubhouse. Go to Mom? Dad? The baby in the sled? Poop again? Lasso the big guy?