For the Love of DOG—A Relationship of Trust – Steve Orr

By the boy who loved his dog;

We lived in a big city with a small backyard. I wanted a dog — a big dog. But Dad said it wouldn’t be right to confine a big dog in a small yard. So we got a fearless feline and named her Jazzpurr, because she had a weird-sounding purr — like a tiny engine revving in a velvet throat.

Then, one day, we had a family meeting. Dad said he had a once-in-a-lifetime job offer. It came just at the right time — when his dotcom startup became a “dotbomb.” But it meant a big move back to the place where Dad grew up. They called it “Big Sky Country” for a reason. Mom had deep roots there, too.

Dad promised that when we got up to Montana, I could finally have a dog.

I still remember the first time I saw him.

We wanted a Siberian Husky, so we drove a hundred-odd miles to a breeder who specialized in Siberians. The kennel was way back in the woods, down a winding dirt road that seemed to swallow the car whole. Some dog breeders prioritize profit — treating dogs like products, not companions. But this breeder, though disorganized, kept things relatively clean. Irritated by our endless questions, he endured until Dad handed over the cash. We left with the papers — and the dog.

On the long drive home, we talked about names. I don’t know how, but we settled on “Luke.” Maybe it was because it sounded like a manly dude. A name that could carry weight.

Luke was the biggest of the litter — unusual for a Siberian, which are typically medium-sized. He stood out not just for his size, but for his coat: a rich, reddish-orange fur that glowed in the sun, and eyes — deep, piercing blue — that seemed to hold ancient wisdom.

Somehow, he knew he was beautiful. He’d tilt his head when we talked about him, as if thinking, Yeah, I’m a handsome dude, aren’t I?

Here’s the thing about Siberian Huskies: they were bred to run across frozen tundra, to make split-second decisions about ice thickness, to question authority when that authority might lead them over thin ice to their deaths. They were trained to be selectively obedient — to trust their own judgment when it mattered most.

And they don’t bark like normal dogs. They howl. And boy, do they howl. Their cries are primordial — haunting, wild, echoing through the valleys like ghosts of the north.

When my sisters and I hiked up the road to catch the school bus, Luke would take his familiar place on the hill by our house and howl until he saw the bus pull away. Then he’d howl some more. In the afternoons, he’d be there waiting, howling the moment he spotted the bus rounding the bend.

Neighbors had HOA rules against barking dogs. But they made an exception for Luke. They loved the sound. After all, this is Montana.

The first thing I learned about Luke was that he didn’t like collars — especially the special one we got him. Siberians have a reputation for wandering off, getting lost, and never coming back. So Dad installed a “no-fence” solution: underground wires and a collar that would deliver a mild shock if Luke strayed beyond the boundaries of our large yard.

I’ll never forget the first time Luke got shocked.

Dad gave him the test, knowing Luke would try to escape. When Luke neared the boundary, Dad yelled, “Luke! Stop!!” A second later — yelp! — Luke experienced “the fear of God.” He learned that his god was a god to be both feared and loved.

Luke obeyed me — reluctantly. But he’d do it his way. He’d sit, but only after sniffing the ground first. He’d come when called — unless he was busy minding a gopher hole. He’d stay — until something more interesting came along.

He was my dog. And he knew I loved him.

Our new house sat on a lot with lots of room for adventure — a boy and his dog, free to roam. And beyond our fence? The wilderness — vast, untamed, alive.

The real test of obedience came with our wilderness adventures.

It wasn’t just a forest — it was a presence. Dark, deep, humming with the sounds of the wild: elk bugling, coyotes yipping, wolf packs howling in the distance. This wild boy and his wild dog loved the wild.

Every morning, Luke would stand at the fence line, nose twitching, ears swiveling, tail wagging like he was about to burst. I’d call him back, and he’d come — usually. But I could see the conflict in his eyes. He wanted to run. He wanted to be free.

One afternoon, the neighbor’s horse got loose. Luke saw it trotting past our yard and thought — That’s a really big dog. I gotta be its best buddy. He couldn’t resist. He bolted — knowing full well he’d get shocked. After the yelp, he was gone.

It took a while to track him down. When I found him, he knew he was guilty. He knew he needed to obey me — right then, right there. He trusted me because he loved me. The prodigal dog needed to come home. He followed me home without a leash.

Sometimes Luke howled because something inside him longed for the wilderness. It was “The Call of the Wild.” Like Luke, I too longed for it. I loved that book.

I often dreamed of having a dog-sled team — with Luke at the lead.

The wilderness called us in late fall. The elk were bugling — their own primordial song.

It stirred something deep inside us —the need to be wild!

Off we ran. Luke was on a long leash — both literally and figuratively.

We were wild and free!

All the animals were “in the rut.” Another kind of wild urge — the urge to procreate. A strange, primal force I hadn’t yet come to understand.

But there was another animal. One much wilder. One with a very different urge — the urge to prepare for the long sleep…

As the sun began to dip behind the mountains, Luke was sniffing and gnawing a bit on an elk gut pile left by a successful hunter.

Then, we heard a deep, guttural growl. Luke stopped mid-stride. Fully alert. What did he know? And how did he know it?

And then we saw her coming. A massive grizzly sow, her fur matted with snow, her fur and mouth stained with blood, her eyes fixed on me. And between us — a cub, no bigger than Luke.

I froze.

Where was my pepper spray?! It must have fallen off my belt. OMG!!

My heart pounded with primordial fear. This wilderness became darker and deeper than I’d ever imagined.

And Luke?

He didn’t think.

He didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t weigh the odds.

He just moved.

He launched himself between the bear and me — letting out the most alarming “bark” he could muster, from a creature who had nothing left to lose.

The bear charged.

Luke met her head-on.

There was no time for fear. No time for prayer. No time for goodbyes.

Just me. Luke. My dog. My friend.

In wild abandon, Luke threw himself into the path of danger.

And as I watched him go, I realized something I’d never fully understood before:

Love isn’t about understanding.

It’s about trusting.

Even when you don’t know why.

Even when you don’t see the whole picture.

Even when the cost is everything.

I didn’t want to see what happened.

But I did.

I know what Luke did.

And I know why.

It was the most loving thing he could possibly do.

But it was still way too much for this thirteen-year-old boy to process.

I was numb.

How did it all end?

Or triumph?

Tragedy?

Please stay tuned…

Because these are deep Matters of the Heart.

Steve Orr writes to us from Montana. After working in the mecca of technology, Steve traded the rat race of Silicon Valley for the adventures of High Tech in Big Sky Country. Steve has an MBA with experience in accounting, finance, technology, and management. He occasionally writes a little software code, but mostly he likes writing about Matters of the Heart.