A dog's life


“Just what kind of dog is that, anyway?” the plump and now pink man asked as he sat parboiling in the hotel hot tub. The man was bubbling off a few aches and pains after a hard day of “mountain cycling” on his Moab vacation late last fall. My pooch and I were passing by, en route to a joint pee break in the woods.

I introduced myself as the Pennsylvanian explained his story. He and his five best college buds were taking a break from their board rooms and significants to skydive, raft and mountain bike their way back to youth. On that, their second day, the tour guide had taken them out for a little Poison Spider punishment. The dog lover was the last man standing (his friends were either napping it off or 20 minutes into emergency massages).

I happened to be in Moab with the fam on one of our biweekly, shoulder season quests for singletrack. Like most trips these days, we had the mutt along for some company.

“We don’t really know his breed,” I answered. “We’re guessing there’s some Aussie in there, but the truth is that he’s really just a rez dog.”

Looking completely stumped, the East Coaster shrugged his shoulders, moaned through a sore spot, grabbed his Coors Light and took a hearty swig. “That’s reservation dog,” I translated.

“Ahhh,” the hot tubber smiled. “You know, my wife and I own a Japanese Water Dog and had to wait two months for her. Great dog. Too terrified to leave the living room, but great dog. So you made a reservation for him, just like us. ”

Not exactly.

The real story is that we found “Bluff” early last spring on the edge of the Navajo Reservation in the town of Bluff, Utah. The shaggy, brindle-colored puppy finagled his way (thanks to a little coaxing) into my then 5-year-old daughter’s arms early one morning at the Recapture Lodge. Once he landed in her deep embrace, the wild pup happily converted, embraced domestication and showed no signs of ever leaving again. Skyler also fell in head over heels. “Can we keep him, Dad?” she pleaded. Knowing I’d be a tough sell, the bartering began in her next breath. “He can be my next birthday present … I’ll pick up all the poop and scrub the pee … We can use my hundred bucks (a bizarre gift from an uncle on her last birthday) for the vet.”

My wife, Rachael, learned the abandoned pup’s tale after chatting with the Recapture’s owner. He’d been orphaned on the reservation and was found roadside next to the lifeless body of a littermate. Time was still ticking for the little guy as he was either going home with new owners or off to the shelter in Cortez and a possible trip to the black box. Covered in burrs, ticks, quills and dust, the skinny, black, sheep dog had clearly been on a rough ride.

“C’mon, Dad,” Skyler begged as she scratched the pup between the ears. “He’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ll never ask for anything again. Promise.”

Rachael flashed me a dastardly look (aka “there is a chance you’ll never get action ever again”), I took one look at the hound and happily embraced dog ownership.

And so it was that Bluff joined the Sands clan, I returned to my wife’s good graces and Skyler’s hundred bucks found a new hiding spot. We motored back to Durango, new dog in tow, and Bluff showed his appreciation by only throwing up once. In deference to our little matriarchy, he skillfully missed the upholstery, opting instead for a direct hit on my favorite riding jersey.

Back in sunny, lush La Plata County, Bluff shed his burrs, put on some serious weight and slid right into family living. Sure, there have been a few bumps in the road – a couple of other vomit episodes combined with a serious case of wanderlust and ability to crack any fence that surrounds him – but all relatively minor issues for a rescue dog.

The truth is Bluff has proven to be a great tagalong on trail rides, an apt hunter of pocket gophers, exceptional bear repellant and loving “brother” to my only daughter. I daresay that we scored the “best one” (reservation or no reservation), truly my women’s best friend and always happy to pencil a few hours in for Dad as long as a bike is involved. More than anything, our ragamuffin is proof positive that any local pet search should begin at the shelter or along the Four Corners various byways … which brings us back to Moab.

“Reservation?” my new and now shocked friend asked from the steaming waters. “I still don’t understand. You mean, like Indian Reservation!?”

I nodded, he shuddered and right on cue Bluff approached the man and began sniffing his beer can (What can I say? The dog had never seen a Coors Light before). Forgetting his aches and pains, Mr. Pink stuttered, “Nice talking to you,” made a fabulous leap out of the Jacuzzi and into his robe and bee-lined it for his buds and the next emergency rub-down.

Unfazed, Bluff only looked up through his dark eyes, wagged his tail and smiled. “Good work, boy,” I said as I scratched him between the ears. “That’s my Bluff,” I added and gave my rez dog, riding buddy and Pennsylvania Pinscher a well-deserved treat.

– Will Sands