While the young and single life is certainly exciting, eventually a man wants to settle down, to have someone there to greet him when he comes home, someone to love him and care for him always, which is why we have dogs.

When I was in my early 20s and decided to buy a dog, I carefully researched the most suitable breed by going to my neighbor's house and picking a puppy from the litter in his garage. As it turned out, they were all huskies, a breed of dog about as easy to train as velociraptors. I named my puppy Chinook, and after six months of training I had managed to teach it the following tricks:

1. Tear up the couch.

2. Eat my socks.

3. Run away when called.

Of these three, "run away" was the most annoying, because the couch was from my old room at the fraternity house and smelled like it needed an autopsy, and my socks smelled like the couch.

When Chinook ran off, though, it implied she thought she was the boss, which was especially vexing because I couldn't think of a way to prove her wrong. I lived in northern Michigan at the time, working for General Motors, and, let's face it, huskies are better at running through snow than guys wearing ties and loafers. Lacking a better idea, though, I'd pursue her until finally I'd tackle her and then be too exhausted to do anything but lie there with my arms around her.

This is what you wanted? her look said to me, a big hug?

Eventually we reached a compromise: She'd stop running away if I built a fence.

In my defense, I was just doing what many pet owners do, which is to be dumber than my dog. If I'd had any sense, I would have realized that huskies are bred to drag things across long distances and that instead of driving to work on the highway, I should have been taking the Iditarod.

"Chinook," I asked her, "why don't you like me?"

I'm hungry, her look said to me. Pass the socks.

After a few years, I had a family — and Chinook decided that sticking around suited her just fine. The children were always willing to sit in the wagon or sled and have Chinook pull them. She was finally doing what she craved: She was working.

We moved to a country house in southern Michigan, which is much warmer than northern Michigan by 1 degree Fahrenheit. Chinook never ran away unless there was a thunderstorm, of which she was terrified. At the first rumble from the sky, I made sure she was safely locked in the basement.

One day when the family was out, a storm came, and by the time we returned home Chinook had climbed the fence and fled the thunder. I drove around yelling out my car window (making me very popular with my neighbors), posted signs and took out newspaper ads.

After a week of searching, I had to face it: I'd lost Chinook. Heartbroken, I saw this as just another in a series of failures in pet ownership, and vowed not to get another dog until I was smart enough to take care of one.

And then a farmer called me, responding to my advertisement. Though it had been 9 days and though his farm was more than 25 miles from my home, the stray he'd found sounded enough like my dog for me to drive up there to take a look.

When I pulled into his driveway, a big husky was lying out in the field, 50 yards away. As I stood up, that dog raised her head and then streaked across the field in a flash, tackling me to the ground. It was Chinook, yipping excitedly, licking me, jumping on me, crying. I grabbed her, and she gave me a look that said: This is what I wanted. A great big hug.

That was a long time ago, and I still think I wasn't cut out to be a husky owner — but that day, seeing how happy Chinook was to see me, I realized this: I must have done something right.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2008 CREATORS SYNDICATE INC.

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