“Now come on, Kyloo,” Mr. Mace’s voice was coaxing. “Don’t be shy. I’ll start you off.”
Mr. Mace thrust back his head and a loud, prolonged wail came from his throat.
Kyloo didn’t need any more urging. He tilted back his head, opened his wide jaws and the same powerful, prolonged note issued from his throat. It re-echoed through the grove and grew in volume as the wail was taken up by the eighty dogs.
It was a strange, primitive call, high and piercing. Yes, it was a kind of song, the dogs’ farewell to the visitors, farewell in music.
While Allen stayed on to take some snapshots of the dogs, Lynne and Judy followed others into the Arctic Trading Shop, a lovely log cabin displaying rare and unusual things. When at last Allen joined them, they returned to the car to drive back to Aspen.
It was only as they drove through Main Street past the Ski Lodge and Chairlift that Judy suddenly remembered.
“Allen,” she said, putting her hand on the wheel, “aren’t we going up the Chairlift? You promised!”
“Judy, I hate to say it, but the answer is ‘no.’”
“Why?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Well,” Allen said slowly as if to lessen the blow, “chiefly because Lynne and I went up last Saturday.”