Working dog?

Right.....

I really tried everything with this big goof.

The first time, he was on fire—600% motivation, a heroic surge, the voice of the wolf rising from his belly, echoing across the snow. I thought, this is it. We’ve found our athletic destiny. At 65 (for me, not for him), it was about time.

Then came the second attempt.

He had understood everything. Sometimes I swear he’s more intelligent than 75% of the population… and I’m being generous. He looked at me for a long moment, with the quiet gravity of a dog who sees straight through human absurdity.

And then—he collapsed.

Spectacularly.

He flattens himself into the snow, theatrical, unmoving, like a dying star—black on white, blank, vaguely depressed, deeply committed to the role. A low whine, just enough to break your heart. Not a muscle moves. Not even the suggestion of effort.

Just a large, furry refusal:

No. I’m not doing this.

The dogs’ strike.

Total. Solemn. Irrevocable.

We never tried kicksledding again.

Or any dog sport, really, because it’s always the same story. This dog refuses to perform. End of discussion.

He’s not a circus animal. He’ll gladly do a few easy tricks—give a paw, offer kisses in exchange for a cookie—but follow pointless rules for no reason? Absolutely not.

And honestly, I respect that. No way I’m going to “break” him just to make him obey commands that only entertain the human.

Still, I thought I was getting a working dog—active, tireless. Instead, I got a slightly unhinged little creature (much calmer this year, I have to admit) who does exactly as he pleases. I’m still a bit confused.

Apparently, herding dogs aren’t built for endurance. They’re not marathon runners—they’re sprinters.

And yes, I see it.

That first ten minutes at 600%? It’s real.

So that’s our life now.

We go all out for ten minutes, then collapse for an hour… and then we do it all over again.