With a big dog chow hound the training them to carry a pannier pack of their own would be advantageous. I’ve not seen that on a portage trail, but have met climbing parties, burdened with ropes and gear, whose dogs were carrying their own weight.
Kinda doubting Glenn wants a big dog in tender boats. He could get something like Sadie. I’ve told this tale before, but it remains a group trip favorite memory.
We were on one of those multi-day Gentleman’s trips where we’ve brought everything but the kitchen sink; tarps, chairs, serious food larders, coolers with frosty beverages, dogs and assorted hangers-on.
Alan has brought along his miniature canine companion Sadie, a 5 lb Toy Manchester, and her assortment of diminutive doggie accoutrements, including a dry dog food mixture consisting of tiny little crunchy pellets, made especially for a Lilliputian pooch.
Camp established, sun set, we settle in for a long night of frosty beverage consumption. Arising somewhere bleary eyed the next morning we survey the carnage of our camp. Most folks have at least made it back to their tents and we commence the inevitable morning after clean-up.
In the midst of policing the area Alan finds that something has been at Sadie’s dog food stash, the top is off the jar and her supply of tiny crunchies is nearly exhausted. Something clever we deduce, cunning enough to unscrew the lid. Most likely a raccoon. Alan finds the lid, secures the jar and makes a mental note to take better precautions with Sadie’s food in the future.
Little by little our remaining companions awake to stumble about camp. Alan’s newcomer friend Jay is one of the last to arise, looking quite the worse for wear. Jay plods about the campsite in an unfocused manner, at last coming to a stop beside Sadie’s food jar. Unscrewing the lid he scoops up a handful and begins popping them into his maw.
“JAY, what are you DOING?” Alan shouts.
“Oh, uh, sorry, I, uh, I thought they were for everybody” Jay replies sheepishly.
“How much of that have you had?” Alan asks.
“Um, well, last night. . . . I mean. . . . I thought they were for everybody”
Not a cunning animal. Not a raccoon. Jay. Jay has mistaken eaten a three day supply of dog chow in one night. And liked it enough to come back for more in broad daylight.
Being the empathetic and tactful group that most boaters are we spent the next several days speaking to Jay with peculiar, enthusiastic inflection. “Down Jay, sit, sit down!”, “Come Jay, atta boy, who’s a good boy?”
For some reason Jay never came on another trip. And we even offered to bring some of the stuff that makes its own gravy.
Glenn, maybe a Manchester Terrier, trained to carry a tiny little kibble pack. I can’t resist. From the 1966 Observer’s Book of Dogs:
“Purely British in its origin, and probably descended from an elderly barrister’s Black& Tan Terrier, it had its heyday in the last half of the last century, when it was quite fashionable”.
That sounds like Glenn to me.
“The quality and popularity of the Manchester deteriorated. . . .and eventually the breed neared extinction”. That’s Glenn all over, including “Ears small and vee shaped. Coat close, smooth, short and of firm texture”
Not that I spent much time petting Glenn when he visited.