Homage: Survival of the (Un)fittest

You don't dabble in survival—it’s a do-or-die deal. When faced with the long odds of making it out alive, few souls evade the snake-eyed gaze of Monsieur Grim. Essential traits for avoiding the chop are courage, self-reliance, and a keen, instinctual nose for sniffing a way out of your fatal fix. Gus, a stunning, bug-eyed pug, a paragon of persistence, thwarted such a premature grave. And since it can indeed be a dog’s life in a dog-eat-dog world, it’s probably best to be your own best friend first, especially if your wool-gathering caregiver is the bespectacled, multi-talented Cedar Wright, climbing’s absentminded “Mr. Magoo.” In early August 2010, while climbing outside of Estes Park, Colorado, said dog and sordid human became separated, for what was feared to be forever.

Colloquially, you can get thrown to the dogs, feel like a dog in heat, enjoy a dog between buns, split the show with a pony, rain down with cats, and you’re advised to let sleeping dogs lie, lest they eat your homework and make you as sick as them. There are TV dogs dealing with Caesar and Shaggy, book dogs killing for King, movie dogs in the Reservoir, guard dogs chewing chain-link, and then there’s your dog, Muffin, Fleabag, whatever. Would little Duchess make the cut, or would she become a prime piece of quadruped bait? Gus, in all his snorting, furrowed glory, grabbed life by the metaphorical balls (the literal ones coldly removed years back) and heroically saved his life after being abandoned at altitude, left for dead.

I consider dogs through the ages and realize that, ever since Canis lupus familiaris split from the pack and joined us, we’ve celebrated him from myth to hearth. Nowadays, the pooch is omnipresent and climbers have a fondness for having ’em at the crag, as it provides exercise, companionship, and another living being to commemorate their proud sends.

Some dogs have even achieved their own success and notoriety. A few clicks on YouTube yielded: tree-climbing dogs; escape artist dogs complete with campy theme music; and a slew of jumping dogs, even one on a trampoline. (The savage attack videos were queued and called but got no answer —that stuff’s grim.) Perhaps the most applauded of all the climbing hounds was the beloved Jack Russell terrier Biscuit, a five-pound powerhouse of obsessive compulsion, nicknamed the “Lynn Hill of the dog world.” Biscuit lived up to her name as audiences the globe over were amazed and delighted by her appearance in Front Range Freaks, and, unfortunately, her eponym would sadly play into her demise at the fangs of mountain lion high up in the Rockies, close to where Pug’Diddy was currently cruxing.

Was Gus’ will to live and stout-heartedness summoned from his genetic ties to the gray wolf, or was it simply the malodorous yeast infection living in the folds of his face that made him unpalatable, nay repugnant, to the lurking mountain lions? The jury’s still out on whether you can teach an old dog new tricks, but “Gus Simpson” (née circa 2002) adapted quickly and won the canine crown on Survivor Rocky Mountain. He made his way across three rugged miles, spanning six days, eventually reaching a remote cabin and the surprised arms of vacationing second homeowners. Cedar feared the worst: that his pal Gus was Puma Chow and his loving girlfriend would finally hear the final straw snap and send him packing. To his credit, he’d thoroughly combed the area for two days. Then, finally and tearfully, he’d built little “Gusley-Wusley” a granite sepulcher, like some kind of vacant Tomb of the Unfound Pug, close to the last sighting, and left some kibble and a collar.

Wonderfully, the people who happened upon our furry hero located Cedar by utilizing a subcutaneous chip in “Touching the Pug’s” neck, and they were joyously reunited. Although they may have been dealing separately with their own self-induced infernos, Gus and “Cedro” held onto the one thing in their life that matters most—the lady who owns them both.

Heroes like Gus are rare, and his story is an example of honor among hounds. It’s a tale to celebrate endurance as much to pay homage to the fallen. It’s also a reminder that the cragging canine, with its attendant rope pissing and shrill barking, is here to stay—available to fetch the stick, guard the cooler, curl up in the back of the truck, and even instruct us that, against all odds, “Don’t Stop Believing” isn’t just a cheesy Journey song, but a way to stay alive and thrive. As the insightful satirist Mark Twain noted, “What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; what counts is the size of the fight in the dog.”