Winter at Mt. St. Helens

“He knows sign language?” Myron is snickering; she glares at him, then leans in to scruff Badger on his neck. He preens, and Myron became an instant fan. Anyone his dog liked, he liked.

“There’s discussion on his true name. There are no scientific studies. Maybe came with aliens; a different plane of existence and stuck?”

“Does this one have a name?”

“I call him BF – not Big Foot, but Big Friendly. I showed him pictures of Yeti in the Himalayas, and he was fascinated, rubbing his brown fur, poking the picture of the white Yeti. He watched the 1967 video, which fascinated him.”

“See, Myron, I told you it is male! Damn, these Washington snowfields are cold!”

“I’m sorry he didn’t understand your dog, but after the kick, we had a long lesson with photos and smells so he wouldn’t hurt any dogs. Hikers sometimes bring dogs, and when they smell BF… they get lost, the odor disorients them, and they don’t make it out. Actually, he is less noxious in the snow!”

“The dogs can’t find their owners? Dumb dogs!” Myron exclaimed.

"He stank in deep snow my first night here.”

“Wait until summer!” She turned to Myron. “The dogs aren’t dumb. Their olfactory senses become obscured; as senses return dogs get disoriented. Some make it to the road; some end up dinner.

“Bears?”

“Cougars usually.”

“Have you been to Alaska?”

“No, but I’d like to.”

Mike winked at Myron, convinced Felicity would be visiting Myron up north.