(So, you think you know something!)

I was sitting there mulling over the stats of the Siberian Husky world and drinking my second beer at our local pub, The Water Valley Quaff and Snort, when in walked my old buddy, Tom.

"Hey Tom, join me for a beer," I hollered across the noisy room.

Over he came. "A lite, a Fosters lite," he called to the bartender.

"I hear you just had another litter of puppies."

"Yep, another round of white dogs," he said. "that’s the second litter out of that black bitch, all squawkers." He sat down and the bartender brought over his beer.

"Well, here’s to Siberians," said Tom, and he took a long pull at his bottle.

"You know," I started, "I was looking at my big black and white male the other day and you’ll never guess what went through my mind."

"Not much from the look of that hat you’re wearing," quipped Tom.

"What’s wrong with my hat," I asked?

"Oh, nothing, nothing," he replied. "Anyone who likes his dog more than people probably shouldn’t be doing his drinking in a place like this."

"Why not," I replied? "Some people here probably like their cows and horses more than people."

"Sure, sure," he said. "So what was your brain storm of the week?"

"Well, I looked at my dog and I thought to myself, this dog has a certain amount of Akita in him."

"How did you arrive at that misconception," asked Tom? Looking at me like I’d lost it.

"Well," I said, "the shape of his head looks a little bit like an Akita if you see it in a certain light."

"What were you drinking when you saw this Akita in your kennel at midnight," he asked? "The next thing you’ll be telling me is that you’ve got Great Danes and Whippets too."

"Not quite," I replied, "but I think there’s some Malamute and some Samoyed in my lines too."

"Where do you get these ridiculous ideas from," he asked, staring at me incredulously.

"Reading," I replied. "I’ve been reading all this stuff that’s been published about Siberian Huskies. In one of them there’s a picture of a dog that looks very much like an Akita, and it’s an ancestor to some of the early Sibes that were registered south of the 49^th."

"49^th," inquired Tom?

"The excited states," I said.

"Oh, that 49^th," mumbled Tom.

"Not only that," I continued, "but another publication says that some of the early dogs were definitely Malamutes. That would explain the woollies, the wide ear sets and the flip tails that show up in the Siberian breed occasionally."

"Speaking of flipping," broke in Tom, "I’ll flip you for the next round," as the bartender brought over two more beers. "Tails, you pay," he said righteously. "well, I guess a person’s entitled to think whatever he wants," affirmed Tom, no matter how silly it sounds.

"Yes, but this stuff is documented, it’s written in publications, it’s fact," I continued, still trying to justify my conclusion.

"Do you believe everything you read," queried Tom?

"Sure," I said. "How else are you going to learn anything."

"From experience," he replied. "You read and learn what you can from books and other publications, then you talk to as many other breeders as you can and learn from their experiences, but you learn the most from your own experiences, and they can be very different from everyone else’s."

"Sounds like you’ve had a lot of your own experiences," I said.

"Sure have," verified Tom, and not all out of a bottle either."

"Well, the beer fosters a more progressive thinking process," I said justifyingly.

"In your case, it’s more likely regressive," he replied sarcastically.

"By the way," I suggested, "how much Samoyed do you think is in the white Siberian lines?"

"Samoyed," he inquired unbelievingly, looking at me through the bottom of his beer bottle? "Which comic book did that idea come from?"

"No, think about it for a minute," I said. "All the white dogs are barkers. Samoyeds are barkers, and they’re white too."

"No kidding," he said. "At least you’ve got that part right."

Just then, Dick sauntered in through the door. "Hey Dick, over hear." I signaled.

"How you dudes doin," he replied, as he came over and sat down. The bartender automatically came over and deposited another round of Fosters on the table.

"So, when are you going to get your dogs out on the trail," I began?

"Oh, just as soon as I get another harness and a subscription to Mushers Anonymous," replied Dick. "I want to have everything I need before I go out for the first time."

"I sure hope you make it in this lifetime," I laughed. "Got your next show dog figured out yet?"

"Yessiree," said Dick. "He’s only six months old, great temperament, terrific structure and movement. Goin to make a great lead dog too. I’m fattening him up for the show ring right now."

"How about that," said Tom, "a fat lead dog that’s never run on a team, I don’t believe it. You guys don’t live in the real world. Where did you get the idea he was a lead dog?"

"Well," said Dick, "at supper time he’s the fastest eater, so he must be a lead dog."

Tom rolled his eyes back so far I thought they were going to fall out of his ears and then he took another long pull at his bottle.

"Everyone has his ways," I said. "That sounds pretty logical to me." "Did you hear about Harry," I asked?

"No, what about Harry," Tom and Dick sang in unison, happy to change the direction the conversation was taking.

At that point, just as if on queue, Harry walked in.

"Hey Harry, over hear." Harry tapped over the wooden floor toward us. "We were just talking about you," I said.

"I know," replied Harry, "I could feel my ears starting to burn."

"That would have been one mother of a forest fire," joked Tom.

"How’s show business these days," I inquired?

"Fine," said Harry. "We just got another championship and best of breed on our red male."

"I hear the Americans are breeding miniature Siberians these days," I suggested, to get the conversation rolling. ‘They probably think that they can sell them to Japan more easily if they make them the same size as Shiba Inus."

"Probably," said Harry, looking at me strangely, "but I hear they’re buying up a lot of Malamute puppies over there now." Our ears perked up. "Really," we all asked?

"No, just kidding," replied Harry, "if you’re going to start a rumor, you might as well make it a real good one."

Just then, the hockey game ended on the big screen TV. The Oilers had just beaten the Flames in the seventh game of the playoffs. "Looks like a repeat of last year’s performance," I commented.

"Fire the coach," said Tom.

"Can the goalie," added Dick.

"Send the general manager to Toronto," chipped in Harry.

"Well, I’d better get home before I have to perform a technicolor rain dance in the parking lot," I said. Out I went as Tom, Dick and Harry began a heated conversation about the merits of red dogs on a racing team.