D I S T I N C T L Y M O N T A N A M A G A Z I N E • F A L L 2 0 2 1
34
Over the years, I was
proud of the work I did
around the Pit.
I stood guard
over my 5,000
acre domain
through the
intense summer
heat...
...and kept frigid
watch through
some of Butte's
worst winters.
My breed is called a
puli, and my thick,
impeneterable fur
keeps me protected
the weather.
All that time,
the workers
never stopped
trying to help.
They set out food and even
made a rough dog house
that I could use for shelter
against the harsh elements.
But I was tough
and kept to my
solitary mission.
Then, it dawned on me how much I had in
common with the workers: we were strong,
stubborn, and -- above all -- from Butte (which
makes "strong" and "stubborn" redundant).
I realized that they wouldn't give up on me, as I
would never give up on them. Maybe the best way
to help people is to let them help you as well.
So, sometimes I'd stay
in the doghouse.
And sometimes I'd eat
the scraps they left out.
To not hurt the
workers' feelings,
of course.
I doubted "toughness" was a column
on her graphs, but I let her clip a
lock of my hardened hair armor.
She said I had
beautiful eyes
once they were
uncovered.
Beautiful, but
still tough, was
her full quote,
I'm sure.
She wanted to get a reading of the
toxins I absorbed from the pit, and
how I was able to survive in such
a harsh environment.
One day, a nice scientist
from Montana Tech asked
to take a sample of my fur
for chemical analysis.
