Living in Pasadena, I constantly debated whether to get a dog.

Considering the size of my townhouse, walking time, and shedding, I found it hard to make a decision. Eventually, I ended up adopting a husky. A friend had a pair of huskies that had six puppies, and I adopted a beautiful female.

Now she is three years old, and honestly, I still sometimes wonder if I made the right choice, but she makes me laugh at least twelve times a day.

People often say that huskies are disobedient and troublemakers, but once you live with one, you quickly realize that it's not because they're dumb, but because they're too clever for their own good.

This little one is particularly playful. Whenever I try to put on my shoes, she always comes over at that moment, grabs the shoelaces, and runs away. I know she does it on purpose because when I look at her, she glances back and wags her tail slightly. And then there's the unique husky sound. It's not just barking; it's a real complaint. If the walk is late, it's "arou arou," if she doesn't like her food, it's "arou arou," and if it's raining and she doesn't want to go out, it's "arou arou" again. Sometimes it even has a tone like a person grumbling.

What's interesting is that this complaining is quite logical. On days when the walk is shorter than usual, she lets out a long howl as soon as we get home. It feels like she's questioning if that was right for today. So, I think that while huskies can't talk, they think quite a bit.

Every time I see jokes online about huskies being dumb, I laugh to myself. Once you live with one, you can never say that.

These days, my little joy is when I hear news of snow. Since it doesn't snow in Pasadena, as soon as I hear that it has snowed in Big Bear or Mountain High, I jump in the car. The drive up the mountain with the husky in the back seat already fills me with excitement.

As soon as she gets in the car, she looks out the window and starts her "arou arou" again. This time, it's not a complaint but a sound full of anticipation.

When we arrive in the snowy field, the husky becomes a completely different dog. She runs around madly in the snow, buries her face in it, and rolls around with her whole body. Watching her, I feel relieved that I'm not forcing her to fit into city life. This dog is meant to live in places like this. Thanks to the snow, I feel less guilty.

On the way home, we both quiet down. The husky falls asleep from exhaustion, and I grip the steering wheel, reflecting on the day.

She still sheds a lot, is still playful, and her complaints haven't decreased. But now I understand.

It's not that huskies are dumb; they're just too lovable and have too many thoughts.

From now on, whenever I hear news of snow, I'll probably grab my car keys and drive to the snowy mountains again.