"Really Okay" ©1997, 1998 Cashew Lou

This story is about bipedal Siberian Huskies. Much like us, they walk and talk and work and play and are confused by dime-a-minute calling plans and generally botch relationships and wonder what it all meant at the end.

For the curious, yes, they are all around us; but they are understandably wary as to whom they reveal their true natures. Dogs tend to be exploited by man—the Golden Retriever is a hero on the hunting ground, only to be banished to a chilly and damp doghouse once the hunt is over; the Doberman is trained to be mean, as a guard or attack dog, earning this noble animal (and the Rottweiler and Pit Bull Terrier) a reputation of temperament he doesn’t deserve.

And the Husky! A friendlier, cleaner, harder-working breed is impossible to find! Their powerful bodies have pulled humans to their destinations wherever glacial terrain and howling winds make other transportation well nigh impossible. Huskies have been pivotal in the well being of entire towns before—witness the diphtheria epidemic of Nome, Alaska of 1925. Husky teams literally saved the future of Nome, relaying the crucial antitoxin from Nenana, nearly six hundred miles away.

And what became of the team that finally made the delivery to Nome? You guessed it—exploitation. Paraded around the country, they were displayed in a cramped cage, and were allowed virtually no exercise. A Husky is a runner; they need space and wind and the sound of snow crunching beneath their paws. A concrete cage traveling on a ramshackle train from state fair to state fair was what they got for their trouble.

There is good news, though; a happy ending, as it were. School children from around the country became aware of the dogs’ plight, and took up donations to buy the team from the shameless promoter. They weren’t companions or friends to him, as all dogs should be to mankind; they were the means to an end, the end of course being money.

The dogs were given good homes, food, exercise and love. The latter parts of their lives were healthy and productive. To quote Steven Spielberg, "The dogs saved the children, and in turn, the children saved them back." It would not surprise me to learn that at least one or two of those Huskies revealed their bipedal natures to their human families.

To clarify: Not all Huskies are bipedal. Don’t walk up to your Husky (if you are blessed with one) and carry on a conversation with him or her. No, no, let me modify that; all dogs love conversation from their human friends. Just don’t expect a response. But maybe, just maybe, if you’re very very lucky, you’ll hear a whisper in the middle of the night from a dog who has decided to give you its trust. Just maybe.

My, but I do digress! Let us join our bipedal Husky friends, far from civilization, walking and talking as naturally as can be. Our setting: a forest clearing, late afternoon, autumn slowly giving way to winter.

One slate blue and one copper Husky tread through the carpet of leaves into the clearing…

"Okay," Rust said, panting slightly, "Stop. Let’s stop here for a minute."

George sighed. "So when you want to stop, we stop, is that it? I needed a rest about two miles ago, but no! ‘Keep moving,’ you said. ‘Just a little further.’ Ever had to pee while walking backwards? There’s no…umm…there’s a word for it…"

"…time to lose?"

"No…when you feel dumb and small, you know…low self-worth…"

"Dignity?"

"Dignity! There’s no dignity when you have to pee walking backwards." George nodded emphatically. "No dignity."

"You could have let me know why you needed to stop, for crying out loud." Rust said, without much conviction. Heaven help him, but George wasn’t that bright. They had been partners for years, and Rust tried his best to shake George from his tendency toward self-loathing. Here he had dropped the ball, and he felt like crap.

"We could have stopped for that, George."

"That’s all right."

"No…no, it’s not. You’ve just got to let me know, you know? Tell you what—next time you say we stop, we stop."

"Okay."

"Okay? Really okay?"

"Really okay." George smiled. He knew ‘really okay’ meant an argument had been averted—and Rust always won arguments.

"Good. I just need to get my bearings. That’s why I stopped. I have no idea where we are right now."

George wondered to himself how a bunch of little steel balls would help Rust figure out where they were. Maybe something to do with magnets? But Rust was smart; he’d figure it out, little steel balls or not. George walked in little circles in the clearing, kicking leaves. He hummed happily to himself.

Rust looked around, trying to find landmarks of any kind. There of course were none. He had to make a conscious effort not to convey to George just how unbelievably lost they were. They could have gotten a detailed map for four bones, but had decided against it. George had wanted to be the tracker, and to follow the searchlight. All had been well until the searchlight disappeared.

Rust had gone to HuskCon ever since he was a pup. It was a fantastic way to meet other Huskies and to generally blow off the steam that had collected during the year. Until this year, he had been unable to convince George to come along—even though meeting other Huskies would undoubtedly bring him out of his shell. But George a) was afraid all the other Huskies would be a lot smarter than he was (Rust was fine, but a whole roomful of Rusts terrified George) and b) was a little chubby. Days of hiking to a place he didn’t really want to go seemed a pointless endeavor.

Then George heard about the searchlight.

The HuskCon officials had announced that, due to their remote location somewhere in the mountains, a searchlight would be turned on a week before the convention. That way, all wandering Huskies would have no problem making their respective ways to the gathering. This concept, simple and elementary in its brilliance, excited George. Rust had told him it was only a three-day hike to HuskCon, and the searchlight would be visible almost from their back step.

It was then that George insisted on navigating.

Rust had happily conceded, planning in the back of his mind to buy a map. This thought, though never expressed, embarrassed and shamed Rust. He would give his friend the benefit of a doubt. He bought no map. They did leave a day early, though, just in case.

And here they were. A day and a half into their trek, the searchlight had gone out, never to return. Another day had passed since, and neither Husky could remember the way home, either.

Rust contemplated a treacherous-looking bank of cliffs, just to their west, past a small brook. He was pretty sure those would need to be crossed to get them back to civilization. The thought of pulling George up those cliffs, huffing and puffing, gave Rust pause. He felt a doggy migraine coming on.

Rust turned and regarded his soul mate. George was scratching his back against a tree, his eyes closed, his face beaming with simple rapture. Rust felt a sensation of warmth bloom in his chest, as he rediscovered the love he felt for his friend. George, Rust thought to himself, may you be as happy as you are now for the rest of your life.

Scaling the cliffs turned out not to be not such a horrendous affair, at least at the beginning. Considering neither of them had brought any ropes or climbing gear, their progress had…well, progressed swimmingly.

At the beginning.

There’s a book that starts with words to that effect, and it isn’t too long afterward when disaster ensues. While George and Rust’s travels are hardly those of biblical proportion, things did start to go downhill. After all, on a lofty cliff, what other direction is there to go?

"Rust, I really gotta stop!" George gasped, trying to pull in huge lungs full of air. No matter how much oxygen he gulped, it didn’t seem like enough. "Okay? I mean, really okay, okay?"

They were two-thirds the way up the cliff, it was getting dark and cold, and no searchlight was there to guide them. What the heck? Rust thought. We’ll take five. Really okay!

"All right," Rust said resignedly. "You can’t really sit down anywhere or anything, but let’s catch our breath, at least." He leaned against the rocky wall. He had to admit, he was a little pooped, as well.

George shrugged his pack off his shoulders and began to rummage through it. The tip of his tongue stuck out as he searched; it was one of the little things that endeared him to Rust. George didn’t fall deep into thought very often, but when he did, his tongue popped out just a little bit and a look of grim determination was on his face. Thought and concentration were hard work for George, and he took them very seriously.

With his target found, George’s tongue returned to its hiding place. He pulled out two small bags of kibble. "Want a snack?" he asked, offering one of the bags to Rust.

"Not just now, thanks," Rust said. He had to hand it to George—it could be the end of the world, with chaos all around, but George would find the food. He knew the numbers for every pizza delivery place in the tri-state area, and to his credit, knew which plants were edible and which weren’t—a storehouse of information which might come in handy before too long, Rust thought. There’s only so much kibble he can carry, and we’re days from home.

At Rust’s refusal, George’s paw dropped to his side. "Thought you might be hungry," he said dejectedly.

"Well, I am, a little," Rust insisted, "but we need to hold on to all the resources we have." He shrugged. "But you go ahead."

As he returned both bags to his pack, George said, "No, I can wait. I’m not really hungry, it was just somethin’ to do. I can wait," he repeated, but his eyes betrayed him, staring longingly at his pack and the morsels within.

"George," Rust said, with a voice he hoped sounded both friendly and firm, "Eat. Have some kibble."

George turned to look at Rust, a question in his eyes.

"It’s really okay, George."

George thrust his paw into the pack, humming happily again, his tongue sticking out.

After about half an hour’s rest, our intrepid duo moved on. Darkness had fallen, and Rust was keeping a close eye on the remainder of their climb. Thirty feet, no more, he thought, and the steepest part of it behind us. Things could be worse.

Little did he know…

George’s mind was wandering. He knew he could allow it to do so, even in a potentially dangerous situation like this one. Rust had always kept things in order, with an uncanny knack to plan ahead. Rust had a plan for everything, and everything always turned out all right. It was for this reason George had no worry or foreboding sense of doom clouding his mind. That was Rust’s job, and since Rust wasn’t worried, everything would be all right.

Little did he know…

The truth is, Rust was a little worried, but he would never let such a thing be known by George. If Rust were to show a crack in his steady, cool-as-a-cucumber foundation, George would go into a mental free fall. The cosmos and everything in it would be knocked seriously out of whack in George’s mind if Rust were to show anything but steely resolve at a tough point like this one.

It could be very tiring, always being in charge. That was part of the reason Rust had agreed to let George navigate this time. Fat lotta good that did! a dark part of Rust’s mind screamed from the depths. He pushed the thought away.

As the climb continued, George noticed his partner’s silence. He felt Rust was, at least some way, blaming him for everything that had happened to this point. He knew one way to find out—conversation. If Rust was angry with him, terse and moody would be the tone.

"Umm…Rust?"

"Yeah."

"Will there be a lot of Huskies there? At HuskCon, I mean, not the top of the cliff."

Rust smiled. George was simply making conversation as a means to cut the tension. Quite frankly, he welcomed the distraction. "Well, I think we’re probably the only Huskies on this cliff," he chuckled.

Oh good! George thought. He doesn’t blame me!

"As for HuskCon," Rust continued, "sure, there’s hundreds of Huskies from all over the world. It’s a lot of fun—you’ll make a lot of friends there."

"You think so?" All the friends George had, he had met through Rust. "Think they’ll like me?"

"You’re a Husky, aren’t you?"

"Well, sure, of course I am…"

"Then they’ll like you."

George mulled this over, the tip of his tongue popping out again. The logic was there; he was a Husky, he would be surrounded by other Huskies, and what wasn’t there to like about him? Before Rust, he had had trouble believing in himself; Rust’s unconditional friendship was one of the things that kept George going. That point settled, George’s tongue popped out of sight again, his mind cranking forward to the next topic of discussion.

"So, what kinda food do they have there?"

"Oh, all kinds. You won’t go hungry—no, not even you. Hold on a minute." Rust had reached a particularly tricky point on the cliff and was having trouble getting purchase with his paws. They had gone a little numb, and sensation in his extremities was crucial at this juncture.

Rust was on the highest ledge of the cliff (next to the actual top of the cliff, that is), and the distance to the top was presenting a challenge.

"So will it be like a buffet, or…"

"Hold on!" Rust slowly and deliberately rubbed his chin with his paw; this was his outward sign of concentration. "Come up here, George, even with me."

George, who had been following Rust’s lead all the way up the cliff, pulled himself up to the same level with him.

"Crouch down on your knees, George," Rust said, not even looking at the slate blue Husky. He was staring at the top of the cliff, maddeningly near now.

"Here, Rust?" George said, incredulously. "Now?"

"It’s not that, George. I need to get up on your shoulders. I’m pretty sure we can reach the top now."

"You think maybe we’ll see the searchlight then?"

"Who knows, George. Anything’s possible."

George crouched down in front of Rust, who clambered over his broad back. Rust swung his legs over George’s shoulders and sat in the piggyback position. He told George, "Okay. Stand up now, and try to stay as steady as you can."

As George stood, Rust saw that his reach was still going to be a few feet short. "George?" he hollered down.

"Yeah?"

"Brace yourself. I’m gonna jump."

A look of abject horror instantly crossed George’s face. "Don’t do it, Rust! We’ll get home, you’ll see!"

Rust had to bite his tongue to stifle a bray of laughter. "Up, George. I’m gonna jump up to the top. So brace yourself."

George braced himself, and he felt a jolt of downward pressure go through his body as Rust pistoned himself upward. Quick pressure, then nothing—all the weight was gone. He was almost afraid to look up. What if Rust wasn’t there?

Rust saw George standing stock-still, his eyes squeezed shut. "You can open your eyes now, George. I made it."

"What about me, Rust?"

Good question! Rust looked around, cursing himself for not planning this part. How would he get George up here? He then literally stumbled upon his answer.

A tree root was sticking up less than two feet from the cliff’s edge. It formed a small arch, with both ends embedded in the soil. Rust grabbed it and leaned back, testing its strength. It seemed sturdy enough, but to hold both of them? They would have to try.

Rust tucked his hind paws beneath the root and lay down on his stomach. Over half of his body jutted out over the cliff’s edge. "George! Give me your paw!"

Even after straining and stretching and grunting, George’s reach was inches short. "What do we do now, Rust?"

"You’ll have to jump, just like I did. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you." Rust braced himself for the weight he was about to bear.

With blind faith in his friend, George leaped. He grasped Rust’s arm with both paws and held on for dear life. Rust let out a sharp "Uh!" as George grabbed on.

"Okay, here we go," Rust said. "I’m gonna pull you up now. It’s a good thing you didn’t look down—" Rust gasped. He had pulled a colossal screw-up this time. The suggestion had been planted, and now his friend, his lover and soul mate was going to…

George looked down.

George’s fear of heights, all but forgotten to the both of them, kicked into high gear. Nauseating waves of vertigo coursed through his body, and he kicked his feet in panic. He tightened his death grip on Rust’s arm.

Rust felt as though he was about to be snapped in half. George’s throes of terror were increasing, and the nerves in Rust’s feet told him what he didn’t really want to hear: the root was giving way. It let out a barely audible creeeeak sound…

And then it snapped.

As the two Huskies plummeted, Rust’s thoughts were of broken bones, or possibly an even worse fate. George’s thought was: Oh, well. At least I’m with a friend.

Then there was nothing but darkness for a while.

Moments after George and Rust’s fall, rhythmic tremors, each about a second apart, caused gravel and grit to patter like dry rain down the side of the cliff.

Rust awakened in the predawn, groggy and ravenously hungry; however, one sensation he was sure should be there wasn’t: pain. George was curled into a tight ball next to him, sleeping deeply. If he had any injuries, Rust sure couldn’t make out what they might be. George looked fine, Rust felt fine, therefore…

Unless they were dead!

Rust gave himself a quick painful pinch. The fact that it was painful convinced him he was still alive, or at the very least, not dreaming. He glanced around at their surroundings.

They were in a cave, with a high arched opening revealing a breathtaking view of distant pine trees, made even more breathtaking in the dim light of approaching dawn. The cave itself was roughly the size of a football field, and it had a lived-in look. The ground was cleared of rocks, branches and debris, and the high ceiling of the cavern was totally free of stalactites. Or were they stalagmites? Rust wasn’t sure; the kind that hang down, anyway. Whatever they were called, there weren’t any, and was pretty sure caves were supposed to have them. If this place had them at one time, Rust thought, someone went through a lot of trouble to get rid of them; the ceiling had to be well over one hundred feet off the ground.

As Rust’s gaze scanned down from the ceiling, he noticed something against the wall opposite the cave’s opening which caught his attention and held it quite firmly. His stomach roared at the discovery.

There was a six-foot long table, covered from end to end with food. Bowls and platters of kibble, meats and pizza crowded the table’s surface, and each inviting entrée seemed to clamor for Rust’s attention. It was hard to take in all at once, considering the last time he had eaten was the kibble George had offered him—no, wait! He hadn’t even eaten then! When had he last eaten? Rust honestly couldn’t remember.

He just had to share this with George.

"George!" Rust excitedly nudged his sleeping mate. "George! Georgie boy! You can’t sleep through this!"

"Ruh? Time izzit?" George dazedly lifted his head and opened one eye. "Rust? Where are we? What happened?"

"I don’t know what happened, but do you remember asking about there being a buffet at HuskCon?"

"Kinda. I guess…"

Well, this ain’t HuskCon, but feast your baby blues on that!" Rust grabbed the sides of George’s head and swiveled it around to face the table.

George was wide awake in a nanosecond, and little whimpering noises came from his throat. "Who’s it all for, Rust?" he asked.

"See anyone else around?" Rust said as he got up and started walking toward the table.

"Well, no…"

"Then it’s for us!" Rust ran back to George and hefted him to his feet. "Yards and yards of sustenance, all for us!" He turned to rush back toward the table.

"But whoever it belongs to might be back for it. Maybe we should at least wait." George’s eyes were downcast; he was almost ashamed to look at all that marvelous food, and his mind and stomach were in a moral battle.

Rust had to admit, George had a point there. The food was obviously freshly laid out; the pizzas were still steaming. A thought occurred to him: if the food was recently put here, and we were sleeping just a few feet away…

"Okay, George, listen closely. We slept here, so far as I know, all night. Whoever put this food here had to almost literally step over us to do so. I don’t hardly think they would have put it here if they didn’t want us to eat it. If they wanted their food all to themselves, they would have put it somewhere else."

George’s stomach was convinced, his mind put in a last feeble attempt at the battle it was clearly losing. "But…"

"Ever heard of the Donner party, George?"

"I think so."

"Well, we’ll get to meet them soon if we don’t eat something! And trust me, if they’re as hungry as we are, it is not gonna be pretty."

"Okay. Besides, we can pay them for whatever we eat, later, if they want us to." George’s mind had found a way to call a cease-fire with his raging stomach. All was well on the Georgian front.

It doesn’t take a Rhodes scholar to figure out what happened next. Both Rust and George ate their fill and fell into a post-gluttony stupor. The two Huskies went back to sleep, full and happy, oblivious to all around them that brisk late autumn morning.

Their host peered through the cave’s mouth, and seeing they were once again asleep, motioned to some friends waiting nearby to quietly have the table removed.

This time around, Rust was awakened by George.

"Rust? The table’s gone. Rust?" George nudged his friend, each nudge gaining intensity. The final nudge rolled Rust over.

"I’m up, I’m up. What’d you say?"

"The table’s gone, Rust. And all the food."

"And a good thing, too. I don’t think I’ll eat again for weeks."

"You were right, Rust. It must’ve been for us. Or they wouldn’t have taken it away when we were done."

"Did they leave a check?"

George looked around. If they had left a check, the only place they could have done so would have been on the ground. It (the ground, that is) was as tidy and as free of debris as ever.

"No. I think it was for us, Rust."

"Your friend is right, Rust. It was for the two of you. Every last morsel."

Both Huskies jumped to attention and faced the entrance. There was no one there, but the booming voice had come from that direction.

"Who are you?" Rust asked, narrowing his eyes. "I mean, thanks, really, we owe you our lives, I think. But who, and for that matter, where, are you?"

The room darkened. At first, it had looked like the sun had ducked behind a bank of clouds; then it dawned on Rust that it was already overcast outside. Then his mind figured out what was going on and decided to take a little mental vacation.

The entrance to the cave was nearly filled by a one hundred foot tall bipedal Husky. His markings were a stunning contrast of jet black and blinding white. He took a few steps into the cave and paused, his paws on his hips. "I hope you both got enough to eat. I never know how much to prepare for little guys your size."

Rust stared upward, his mouth agape. He was weaving back and forth from vertigo; the last time that had happened, he had been looking up at the Sears Tower.

George sensed that perhaps he should say something. "Um…hi. I’m George, and this here is Rust."

"Hello, George. You can tell your friend here that I’m not going to eat, crush or otherwise harm you in any way. He looks a little concerned."

George turned to Rust, waving a paw in front of his eyes until he had his attention. This took a while. "Rust, he says that he’s not gonna eat, crush or, umm…what was the rest?’

"That’s all right, I heard him, George." He looked up at their host. "Sorry. It’s just that…uh…"

"You don’t see giant Huskies every day, is that it?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"There’s a reason for that. We’re pretty rare." The giant got down on his knees and offered a paw. "My name is Mont. I’m pleased to meet the both of you."

His massive paw engulfed both of theirs, and the single shake he gave them lifted them three feet off the ground. As they shook, Rust realized the name "Mont" was most probably derived from the French word meaning "small mountain." Aptly put! he thought.

Mont stood up and took another step. He was now standing directly above George and Rust. As the two of them looked up, the same thoughts, more or less, were racing through their minds. One can hardly blame them, considering the view they had.

The huge Husky smiled down at them. He stretched luxuriantly, his great arms flexing, his tremendous chest puffing out as he did so. As if prompted by his guests’ reaction to him, Mont said, "The two of you may want to take a few steps back." They did, and he sat upon the cavern floor and leaned back on his elbows. He stretched out his powerful legs, and the two smaller Huskies were now surrounded. Mont looked down and said, "Climb aboard." As he said this, the tip of his penis peeked out of its sheath.

George blushed profusely, the skin inside his ears flaming from soft pink to bright red. His libido was screaming one course of action, his calmer, more reserved side sternly advocating another. Translation? George was horny and confused. He turned his head, blinking sheepishly at Rust, his eyes pleading for guidance.

It looked as though Rust wasn’t going to be much help. He stood, frozen in place, a dumbfounded look on his face, his lower jaw dropping at the amazing and inviting sight before him.

Mont chuckled softly, lowering an immense paw behind George and Rust, coaxing them forward gently. "I won’t bite," he whispered.

The two smaller Huskies slid forward on their hindpaws, the vista of the giant’s incredible endowments looming ever closer. Mont’s rich, canine musk washed over them in nearly palpable waves, and his masculine scent stirred both of them deep inside, a warm bloom of arousal rising in their stomachs. Rust gulped, a clicking noise coming from his throat, and George simply blinked in wide-eyed wonder as the massive paw pressed them between the small mountain’s gigantic legs.

They each had a testicle to themselves, thanks to the extreme size difference. They were firm and warm, and George and Rust each bear-hugged one of Mont’s tremendous balls. They rubbed up and down in huge sweeping arcs while licking him with their long, warm canine tongues. Mont leaned forward slightly, his tremendous orbs pressing even more tightly against George and Rust.

George climbed onto the base of Mont’s shaft, straddling his sheath. As he rubbed, Mont’s penis slipped slowly and sensuously from its hiding place, growing longer, thicker and stronger. George scooted forward and started licking the firm pink flesh. The deep bass of Mont’s happy moan bounced off the cave walls.

Rust, meanwhile, had settled in between Mont’s testicles, rubbing both of them with his paws. He blissfully nuzzled the base of Mont’s shaft with his muzzle. I could stay just like this, forever, he thought.

George stopped licking for the moment and sat back. He rubbed his own penis, now fully erect, against the tremendous one he was straddling. He looked up at Mont, and their eyes met. Without a word being spoken, volumes of information and emotion, chief among them friendship and goodwill, passed between them. Leaning over on his left elbow, Mont brought his right paw forward and gently caressed George’s back.

Rust, who only hours earlier would have sworn he would never climb anything ever again, did so with gusto. He grabbed on to the furry sheath and pulled himself upward.

Soon he was standing alongside George, who had his eyes closed and was happily rocking back and forth, thoroughly enjoying the back rub Mont was giving him. Rust strolled to the end of Mont’s penis and starting licking and rubbing the sensitive tip. Mont leaned back into a fully prone position. He continued to caress George with his right paw and cupped his testicles with his left. He squeezed and rolled them slowly and rhythmically.

George leaned down again and starting licking with renewed vigor. Rust was still at the tip, stroking himself with his right paw. The sensory overload became overwhelming, and he shot his semen in three strong spurts onto Mont’s penis.

With three Huskies giving his genitals their full attention, Mont was about to return the favor. The gigantic Husky’s lower back arced, lifting George and Rust ten feet higher. His abdomen tensed as he braced himself for a huge orgasm—even by his standards.

Wave after wave of warm semen burst forth. George could feel, between his legs, the fluid coursing through Mont’s penis. Rust was sent reeling backward from its force, and he lay on Mont’s stomach, sticky and wet, laughing like a child at his own birthday party. He started licking the deliciously salty discharge off his fur.

George dismounted to the right and walked toward Mont’s chest, rubbing Mont’s softening tool with his left hand. He approached Rust, who had managed to clean himself off pretty well, but was still looking a little ruffled. Rust stood to face George, and as their eyes met, they both broke into gales of laughter. Neither could remember the last time they had had such unexpurgated, unadulterated, unbridled outright fun. They hugged and fell, laughing, onto Mont’s warm belly. Rust whispered something in George’s ear, and George nodded.

Following Rust’s lead, both Huskies crawled commando-style onto Mont’s vast chest. They stopped and looked him in the eye.

"Hello, there," Mont said. He noticed the sly grins on their faces. "What’re you two up to?"

"Now!" yelled Rust, and he and George threw themselves to their stomachs and started to vigorously scratch Mont’s upper right chest.

Now, we all know what happens when you scratch a dog in just the right place, and who better to find the place accurately and quickly than two canines? Mont, in ecstasy, closed his eyes and threw his head back. His right leg thumped the ground, its mighty weight making the ground tremble. He was at their mercy, and he accepted it with cheerful abandon.

After the scratch, Mont stretched in a luxurious yawn and scratched his belly. George stood up and performed his own much smaller version of the same act. Rust pressed himself more firmly against Mont’s chest, burrowing his muzzle into the warm fragrant fur. Rust was a nuzzler, and he was in heaven.

Mont tapped a spot in the center of his chest said, "Stand here, George." George did so, excited and erect, and wondered what was going to happen next. He felt Mont’s right paw press against his back with warm gentle pressure.

"Spread your legs a little bit more."

George obeyed, now having a pretty good idea what was coming next.

Mont’s long, warm tongue rolled out of his mouth and snaked in between George’s legs. Had Mont’s paw not been there, the tongue would have knocked him over. Mont licked him slowly and sensually, and the warmth, moisture and friction were almost unbearable to George. He was pretty sure he had swollen to nearly twice his normal size, and he wondered distantly if it were possible for his penis to explode.

Mont could feel his own penis starting to grow and strengthen again. He reached down with his left hand and began stroking himself. Rust, looking up to witness this, scrambled down to help.

Meanwhile, George was pumping his hips forward and back in time with the licks Mont was administering. You couldn’t have chiseled the wide, goofy grin from George’s face, and the tip of his tongue popped out as he concentrated on the climax of a lifetime.

As he came, a rush of lightheadedness hit George, and he fell to his knees. Mont licked his little friend clean and caressed his back. George grunted happily.

Rust, again at the tip of Mont’s penis, could feel the enormous Husky tensing again. Oh, wow, he thought, twice in one day! He started laughing again, and Mont’s eruption once again knocked him backward. He caught his breath and a fresh attack of the giggles struck him. He couldn’t help it—this was impossible, it couldn’t possibly be happening, but darned if it wasn’t! He enthusiastically returned to the task of licking himself clean.

It wasn’t too long before Rust noticed he had help. George had made the journey down Mont’s tremendous body and was now licking his lover’s matted fur. The licking soon changed from functional to erotic, and George and Rust, partners all these years, discovered wells of passion for each other neither had even dreamed existed.

They made love; the most rare kind there is—heartfelt, bonding love. The smiling giant regarded his two little friends, and fell a little in love himself.

And all this happened before noon! It promised to be a full day.

To recount the rest of their day, although exciting, would be redundant. The three Huskies continued pretty much on the same agenda that had started their day. Rust, who may not have admitted it even to himself, had twenty-four hours before grown a little tired of George; George had considered himself a burden to Rust. What a difference a day makes! Those feelings were exiled forever; on top of that, they had made a new friend—in a big way, pun intended, thank you very much.

Well into the night, the three of them finally gave into exhaustion. George and Rust snuggled into the shaggy fur on Mont’s chest and they were quickly asleep. Just before nodding off, Rust thought to himself that he had never been so warm and comfortable in his life. He scootched a little closer to George and let slumber take him.

Their giant guardian fell asleep as well only moments later.

The dawn of the first day of HuskCon arrived, and George awakened shortly after it broke. He sat up, stretched and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He leaned over and tapped Rust’s back. "Rust, wake up. Are we going to try to get to HuskCon, or not?" He whispered so Mont could continue to sleep.

Rust sat up, still half asleep, and shook his head vigorously to clear his thoughts. Part of him said to heck with HuskCon—that part never wanted to leave this cave again. However, the more realistic part of his mind contested. Yes, it’s wonderful here, it began, but the two of you have a home and lives to lead. George was right; they had made commitments to meet other Huskies at HuskCon, and with any luck, they would do just that.

Rust considerately started patting the tousled fur flat where he had slept. As George followed suit, Rust said, "Yeah, we’ll still go. We’d better get an early start—as early as possible, in fact. Maybe Mont will know the way."

Once they had "made their bed," so to speak, they walked up Mont’s body until they were right next to his face. They gently licked the sides of his muzzle until he woke.

"Mont," Rust said, patting the side of his face. "Mont, wake up, big guy. I’m afraid we have to go soon."

"I figured you might want to," he said, stifling a huge yawn. "What with HuskCon starting today, and all."

Rust did a double take. "You must have heard us just now."

Well, no," Mont replied, smiling. He then recounted some events which helped fill in several holes in the smaller Huskies’ memories. Roughly, it went like this:

Shortly after the searchlight had failed at HuskCon Central, search parties fanned out in every direction to find any wayward Huskies who had lost their way. Mont had stopped such a party in the middle of the night, startling them half out of their wits (George and Rust nodded, seeing very well how that could have been).

Mont had led the party to his cave, showing the search party the sleeping Huskies. One member of the party had meet Rust at a previous HuskCon, thus confirming they were indeed headed to the convention. The party offered to lead George and Rust there, but Mont would hear of no such thing. He did have two requests, however. One of them was for directions to HuskCon.

The buffet the previous morning, he told them, had been arranged and delivered by the top HuskCon officials themselves. That had been Mont’s second request.

When Mont had finished, George’s brow furrowed; Rust expected his tongue to make an appearance at any given moment. "There’s one thing I still don’t understand…"

Mont nodded. "Why you weren’t bashed to a paste at the bottom of the cliff?"

Both George and Rust nodded.

"I can explain that easily enough. We’ll discuss it on the way." Mont offered his paw, and he lowered the two smaller Huskies to the ground. As Mont stood, Rust grinned in awe and wonder. Having a living creature tower that high above you is a sight you never really can get used to. Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side! Rust thought.

As they approached the cave’s entrance, George came to a sudden halt. "Rust? Have we been here before?"

The view did look familiar. There was a stand of timber in the distance. Immediately in front of them was a stony brook that flowed to a small lake (or a large pond, depending on your perspective). Rust scratched his head—he just couldn’t place it.

When they had reached the brook, Mont looked down at Rust. "If you turn around, I think things might fall into place."

George and Rust swiveled around and found themselves facing the cliff they had plummeted from two nights before. They hadn’t seen the cavern entrance in the dark.

"I watched your progress most of the way up," Mont said. "You almost had it made, by the way.

"Anyhow, when I saw you were in trouble, I reached up and caught you. I think the whole ordeal, in combination with seeing me for the first time, was a little much. Both of you passed out and went limp.

"You screamed first, though, Rust."

Rust blushed—at least, as much as a copper Husky can.

"I thought I’d better not traumatize you any further, so I made myself scarce—at least until you had a good night’s sleep and some food in your stomachs.

"The rest, I think, you remember," he finished, grinning.

The memory of the day before jolted Rust’s memory, and he looked down at himself. His fur was matted and sticking out in all directions in crazy little corkscrews. He tried brushing one of the cowlicks down, and it sprung back into position. " I don’t suppose," he said, laughing, "that pond over there is on our way? I could really use a dip."

"No problem," said Mont, gesturing with his shaggy arm. "This way!"

Mont took about fifteen paces, stopped, and turned around. He had momentarily forgotten about the size difference between himself and his friends, and he saw them about one hundred yards behind him. They were running and panting, doing their darndest to keep up.

Once they covered the distance, he offered the winded huskies his paw. They rode on his shoulder the rest of the way to the pond.

On the tranquil pond, a lone drake bobbed quietly on the still surface of the water. He glanced about for bugs or snails or fish or whatever may strike a duck as being delectable.

Then the shadow fell.

As the furry mountain splashed into the pond, the drake decided that Ecuador was supposed to be really nice and warm this time of year and that mountains don’t move about quite so much down there and that he would find out whether or not that was true or not THAT VERY MOMENT.

The water in the pond was frigid and refreshing; that is, as long as you kept in motion. George and Rust gamboled around like otters. Mont would now and again lift one or both of them out of the water, and they would do a more or less graceful swan dive back into the pond.

After their bath, the three Huskies decided on appropriate way to say their goodbyes. Let’s suffice it to say it exceeded a handshake, and George and Rust arrived at HuskCon an hour or so later than planned.

Mont dropped them off about a mile from HuskCon Central, explaining that his appearance there would cause more of a commotion than he really wanted. As Rust agreed with this, George hung his head down and put his paws behind his back. He mumbled something quietly.

"What was that, George?" Rust asked, cocking his head to one side.

What George asked, of course, is what the heroine or mayor or young gun all say at the end of almost every Western known to mankind. They say this to the handsome hero as he prepares to ride into the blazing sunset. But we must forgive George, he didn’t feel it was cliché, and it was heartfelt.

"Will we ever see you again?"

Mont got down on his knees and leaned down to George, until his immense nose was just inches away from him. "Remember the magic," was all he said. He stood back up and strode away. George and Rust watched as his gigantic figure receded, tears burning their eyes.

The three days of HuskCon were a smashing success, all present agreed. George and Rust were celebrities of a sort, the story of their encounter with Mont having preceded their arrival. Everyone in the lobby of the hotel cheered and clapped as they walked in. As the applause was explained to them, Rust leaned over to George and said, "they don’t know the half of it."

This time, George blushed.

Boiled down to its essential elements, HuskCon meant the following to George and Rust:

George made a lot of new friends, and felt better about himself than he had in years.

Rust broke the bank at the blackjack tables.

Behind the door of suite 702, the two of them couldn’t keep their paws off one another. They had rediscovered each other and the love therein.

To top it all off, the suite, room service and even the honor bar were on the house! George was in buffet heaven, and Rust made it home with two terry cloth bathrobes.

Before they left HuskCon, they bought a map.

The most hateful part of a trip is the mind-numbingly boring chore of unpacking everything when you get home. Rust started to carefully empty his pack’s contents onto his side of the bed. A little anal-retentive in nature, even Rust’s dirty clothes were neatly folded.

George dumped his pack onto the remaining space on the blanket. "Hey!" he said. "Where’d I get this?"

He was studying something in his paw, holding it just inches from his face. "If you’d let me see it, George," Rust insisted, "then maybe I could tell you."

It was a finely crafted silver whistle, fashioned in the shape of a quadruped Siberian Husky in a show pose profile. There was a small rectangular hole in the Husky’s back, and the muzzle was hollowed out. The latter was apparently where you blew in.

The Husky had what appeared to be a small saddle on its back, and the saddle was emblazoned with the initial "M."

George’s eyes lit up, and he charged out to the front deck, which ran the length of the house. Rust was right behind him.

George took a deep breath and blew the whistle as hard as he could.

Even with their finely-tuned canine hearing, neither George nor Rust could hear any more than a faint hiss. Rust was pretty sure, though, that the ears the whistle was made for would hear it just fine.

Ears the size of walk-in closets.

George and Rust sat on their porch swing, snuggled closely side by side, holding hands.

A short while later, the Huskies could feel subtle tremors being telegraphed from the soil to the deck boards to their feet.

"Remember the magic," George whispered.