Many weekends find me camping out, either hunting or fishing in the Arizona backcountry. What’s ironic is that as wonderful and exciting as my time in the wild is, nothing really compares to the moment when I turn the truck on to my street and drive up to the house. The garage door opens, and I can hear the excited barks of my two pups, as I kill the engine of the vehicle. I drag a couple of bags into the house, give my girl a hug, and scratch the boys behind the ears. While I recount the weekend’s events to my wife, the dogs are going to find out the story in a different way. With their snouts buried deep into my hunting pack, their noses seek to find out what I was up to, where I’ve been, and if I was successful. Their tails never stop wagging, and they look at me with pleading eyes, hoping that next time I take them with me.
Don’t fret, cats are same way. God forbid I scratch a dog while I’m away. the cats will sniff me for hours then want to know where I’ve been.
Mark
right. there is something about getting back home that is, well, comforting. as much as we love our dogs and they love us back, sometimes the backcountry is no place for pets. unless of course, they are very well trained…
I got home from a WM fishing trip and found out that 911 took place while I was gone.
Ha! I’m liable to get bit if I’m gone more than a few days!