Precariously perched atop snowbanks, he's a teetering mess of limbs and paws. Compelled to conquer the highest of peaks, determined to plant his flag at the summit in the form of a number two, He always gets a 9.8 on the dismount.
7.6 on execution.
When his dober-senses tingle from what lies beneath, a seek and destroy mission is immediately deployed. While most tracking dogs do this with a certain pawfessional panache, Loki merely sticks his head in like a stereotypical ostrich in the sand.
A fresh field, a knoll, a hill, or patch of snow means a new territory to fearlessly discover. Loki will trudge through footprintless snow like it's his job to plow it. He doesnt funnel along the conveniently sculpted man-made snowpaths like a sheep, but rather chooses to create his own adjacent dog route. He thinks he's doing other canines a service.
Perhaps it's his half-huskiness, perhaps it's his love of the whitestuff, or perhaps he's just like any other dog in wonderfully fun weather. He get's that look in his eyes, and ears, they all go different directions, the tail starts to wiggle and dance, one pounce starts and off he goes to Zoomietown, running and circling, zigzagging, bounding around like a bucking baby donkey. It is my fault, because slowly but surely I'm teaching him "Mush!" and he responds with the ancestral pully-pull of snowbound freedom