He was morbidly obese, and couldn’t bend over. So the floor of the house was littered with stuff that he had dropped and couldn’t pick up…kleenexes, dog food, socks.

We took turns cooking. On my nights, I’d try to do something interesting with whatever I could find at northern, or cook a fish bought from one of our staff. On his nights, every night, we had a tin of smoked oysters, pilot biscuit, and cheese.

He had a middle aged friend who used to visit, and the three of us would drink and play crib. The friend eventually moved to northern Alberta, where he kidnapped a teenage girl, held her hostage for a day, then released her, untouched and unharmed. He explained to the arresting officers that “he had always wanted to kidnap a cheerleader”.

DJ was writing two books while in town. One appeared to be a pornographic novel of some sort, from the scaps he left lying on the floor. The other book was about his time in the north, which he eventually published. I won’t tell you what the book was called, because I am in it, described only as “a friend who shall remain nameless”. I’m in a chapter called “The Long, LONG Weekend”, and I blush to admit that the subject of the chapter was extraordinary tales of alcohol consumption. To be singled out as the poster boy for excessive drinking in Cambridge Bay…now THAT’S a legacy. (In my defense, I have to point out that this was twenty two years ago, and I was single and a bit nuts.)

Very funny story, and animal lover that I am I can sort of sympathize with Hector (but don’t they have crematoriums up there?) but would never have left a dead pet in the snow…

How much to ship a dog, btw?

As much as I’m a dog lover and can sympathize with your ex-employee and his ex-dog, I don’t understand why, after all that fuss, he left Frozen Hector at the airport. Too funny.

The Bunker’s stories from the North are great, and this frozen dog-tale was no exception. Thanks!