When I was growing up, I had a great dog named Tiger (full name: Tiger Pirate Furious Ferocious Double-Trouble Dirty Dog Norton).
Tiger was a pretty smart dog. When he was told to stay out of a particular room, he would back into it so that it appeared he was leaving. When my parents moved from Indiana to Maryland, he somehow managed to escape from his crate on the train and hung out at a Baltimore police station until my father was alerted to his presence there.
Why the police station and not a deli or a pet supply store? Only Tiger knew, and he wasn’t talking. But it got him a write-up in the papers.
But I never took him on a long hike up a mountain, and now, reading this guest post from Sarah Jones, I regret… Continue reading