I think it is important to begin this tail, er, tale, with a bit of 
background about our experience with the malamute breed. I will be brief. 
15 years ago, we purchased from a "backyard breeder" a 3 month-old 
malamute male. We were in the process of moving out into the prairie 
countryside, and needed a large dog for outdoors. Let's face it, no farm 
is complete without a large dog in the yard! Tuk became our joy - a gentle, 
loving giant with an unsurpassed sense of humor and fun. He was a packrat, 
picking up anything my husband or children were foolish enough to leave 
lying in the yard. Believe me, he trained them very well to pick up 
after themselves.

Because of some personal tragedies a while later, we decided to move 
out to Vancouver Island after having had Tuk for two years. With much 
discussion and soul searching, we made the decision not to take Tuk with 
us to that hot, humid climate, and found him a wonderful home with a young 
man who worked in the northern part of the province. While we missed him 
horribly, we knew it was the best for him.

Fourteen years pass. We live on a farm in the Alberni Valley. Our 
family of dogs has grown to include our elderly shepard/golden retriever 
cross, two mixed breed terrier/poodle females and two purebred bichon 
females - they being the start of my kennel. We thought that would be 
more than enough for us to deal with. What we weren't expecting was for 
fate, and God, to step and change our minds.

Last December, my husband, Richard, suffered a heart attack and was 
hospitalized for two weeks. At the end of that time he underwent a 
procedure to insert a stent in one of the arteries to his heart. His 
recovery has been good - we were so thankful he was alive - but he 
still suffered some depression from the trauma of the heart attack. 
Richard does his best to walk a couple of miles a day, eats right, 
takes his medication, but has been frustrated by not being able to 
do all the things he used to do.

Enter Willo.

I was taking our brood of 5 outside one morning recently for their 
constitutionals when I heard what sounded like a dog yelping in pain. 
Calling to Richard, I told him it sounded like someone was east of us 
across the creek and had a dog they were hurting. He came out to listen, 
but the sound had stopped, so thought perhaps the sound had been coming 
from south towards town. I went back in with the other dogs and carried 
on with my day.

He always walks the mile over to the other side of the farm where the 
cattle are housed and usually does it out on the road. But that morning 
as he walked out the door, as his body turned right to walk down to the 
road, his feet turned left towards the creek. Without hesitation, 
Richard followed his feet, deciding to walk a different way over to the barn.

She must have heard his approach, because she yelped again, feebly, 
but enough so he heard her. Follwing the sound of her cry, he found 
her deep in the creek - which in winter is swiftly flowing and full - 
clinging by her front paws to a log, and literally out of strength. 
The rest of her body was submerged in the water while the current tried 
to suck her under. Quickly realizing that the creek was too deep for 
him to wade in and get her without him getting soaked by the frigid water, 
Richard grabbed on to a branch, reached down, grasped her ruff and heaved 
the soaking animal up into his arms. Then he swiftly worked his way back 
up to the house.

I heard him yelling for my help as he came through the door, as did 
all the dogs. We raced down the stairs, not sure what to expect. What 
we found was my husband in tears clutching a small, muddy, sopping wet 
body to his chest saying "how could someone do this? How could they do 
this!?" Imagine my shock when I realized not only was this animal alive, 
but she was a very young Alaskan Malamute. Swiftly, we wrapped her in 
thick towels and did our best to warm and comfort her. All the while 
she clung to Richard, moaning pitifully, and shaking uncontrolably. A 
quick call to our Vet, and we were on our way to have her treated.

Dr. Ken and his office staff were terrific, appalled as we were at 
what had happened to the young puppy. Swiftly, they put us into an 
examination room and Dr. Ken started to evaluate her. Her temperature 
was down a degree from normal, her gums were pale, and she was clearly 
traumatized by her ordeal. Dr. Ken gave her a large dose of broad 
spectrum antibiotic to ward off possible infections, then suggested 
keeping her wrapped up by the wood stove and giving her some warm milk. 
He thought she was perhaps 2 months old at the most. We have since 
decided she is more likely only 5 to 6 weeks old And bless his heart, 
Dr. Ken refused any payment for the visit or the shot.

So, home we came. And here she stays. And our family has increased to 
six! As with any small creature, she has recovered very well from her 
trauma. Her canine step-siblings are accepting her with varying degrees 
of disdain an curiosity. Her human parents, on the other hand, will 
take a bit longer to get over it...especially her human daddy who rescued her.

Why call her Willo? Two reasons. First, there are a lot of tall Willow 
trees growing on the bank of the creek where Richard rescued her. And 
second, her strong will to survive. And why did we not try to find her 
owner? Simple. Anyone who would do this to any creature, either by 
accident or design, does not deserve to have her. Fate and God gave 
her to Richard. What more is there to say?