The front desk security guard beheld a rare sight, a smiling employee entering the dungeon gray atrium. John Finnegan navigated the inner depths of Info Handlers Incorporated, whistling cheerfully to himself. Reaching his corkboard work cell, he began the day by packing his personal belongings into a box. Out of instinct, the tall man with brown hair scanned the area like a deer for danger signs. He slipped out of the maze of cubicles.

Reaching the lofty, grazing grounds of Human Resources, he dropped off the Urgent, Please Read letter at the secretary’s desk. The stone is thrown, he thought walking back to his cubicle, watch the ripples spread out in the sewage lagoon.

After investing four years of college for an engineering degree, what did he have to show for it? Eight long years, squandering talent and life at Info Handlers. A software company renowned for bureaucracy, myopic vision, and backbiting internal politics. To John, who believed in competence, pulling your own weight and teamwork; few of the suited bozos, commonly mistaken for supervisors, earned, or deserved, any respect.

Leaving the HR office, John passed by the new morale boosting poster; a picture of an Iditarod sled dog team with the slogan of the month:

Let’s pull together and move our company sled forward!

Smiling, he noticed the cartoon quietly posted below. After two days, management had failed to notice the cartoon drawing parodying the poster. The anonymous artist had substituted Chihuahuas, instead of Huskies, pulling in 20 different directions at once. Some of them were sleeping, others drinking martinis. The artist took meticulous care to represent the tiny dog faces with caricatures of the CEO and his retinue of VP’s. Several of the cartoon dogs were engaging in far more than friendly behavior with each other.

His sensory defenses down, John boldly entered the cubicle jungle. On cue, Victor Coleman popped out of a side doorway like a trapdoor spider anticipating a capture.

"You’re ten minutes late." grunted his boss. "You’ve not been informing me of your actions lately and I’m putting you on report. Failing to obey my instructions will be detrimental to your career here!"

A drinking buddy to a vice president, Victor was tapped for the job to draw attention away from his benefactor. Victor’s incompetence and mismanagement had contributed to the company’s laughingstock reputation in the software industry.

Looking down at the short, pig-faced man masquerading as a manager, John laughed out loud. So loud that heads of coworkers rose upwards from cubicles like startled prairie dogs.

"Vic, your stupidity never ceases to amaze me!" John chortled, "You’ve had your head up your ass for so long, you need a window in your stomach to see where you’re going!!"

Glaring at his stunned onlookers, he snarled, "I’ve pulled ALL of your collective butts out of the fire more times than I can count. Starting today, you’ll have to pull this company sled on your own. I’m out of here!"

Turning his back on Victor, John picked up the box he had previously packed. By now, his resignation letter was being read by personnel.

Norm, the security guard, watched John hand in his badge and fill out the final paperwork. The guard cleared his throat.

"John, I’ll miss your humor round here. Where’re you heading to?"

"No where in particular. I might bum around or take a sabbatical."

Norm nodded, "If you need help or advice in job placement, give this place a try." He pressed a business card into John’s hand. "When you get the chance, talk to him, I’ve known him for many years."

The former employee glanced at the card and politely thanked Norm. Pocketing the card, he strode out to the parking lot and never looked back. Starting up the car, John sighed, he yanked the gear lever out of park and drove off. By being frugal, he figured he could take a few years off. He had turned thirty a few months ago. But he hadn’t given much thought to what he should do with his life. He could take a sabbatical. But doing what?

A few days later, John Finnegan again sat in his car, parked near a mixed cluster of retail and office buildings. He stared at the business card as if reading it for the first time:

The Shapers: Recruiting and Restructuring.
Objects sold separately.

Job placement firms tended to use catchy names, but this was too off-the-wall for his taste. Oh, what the hay, give em a few minutes of your time. John clambered out of the sedan and strode up to one of the buildings. He located a door bearing a brass plate engraved with the same name.

John pushed the heavy wood door open. A mounted bell tinkled. He looked around. Soft lighting emphasized the elegance of the room’s decor. Curious objects were carefully laid out in display cases like collections from a museum vault. Rugs, figurines, rings, swords and other things of the kind seen in small museums, or the Smithsonian. The glass cases had a look of antique leaded crystal. A few stuffed reading chairs were randomly placed around the room.

"A curio shop", John muttered. Indeed, this place bore no resemblance to the serious business atmosphere of a head hunting firm.

He glanced at the business card. Same name as the shop sign. John shook his head, he had been given the wrong card instead. Cosmic mistakes frequently happened. He looked up and noticed a framed picture in front of him. He found his attention drawn towards the poster.

The artwork showed a winter wilderness scene. A man with a neck scarf and dressed in old fashioned winter clothing; skating across the snowy landscape on cross country skis. A length of rope tied the man from a waist belt to a harness on a wolf-like dog galloping ahead, pulling hard. The pair balanced in harmony. Skijoring, he thought, that’s what they’re doing.

The poster conjured up memories of his college days in Colorado. Entranced, John recalled solitary cross-country ski trips in the back country. Visions of sunlight transforming the snow into fields of diamonds. A scene beyond a dream, gliding across open ground, ski’s whispering on the snow, paws rhythmically working and softly panting. It seems like ages ago, he thought, he then interrupted his musing. Paws? Softly panting? Where did that thought sneak in?

The shop keeper came out of a side door, unnoticed by the day dreamer.

"Contemplating a wilderness sabbatical, John Finnegan?"

Startled, John turned around to face the man. A clean shaven, kindly looking gentleman in slacks and wearing a green sweater. Almost disappointing. In a way, he had half expected to see a white bearded man in a long, enigmatic black robe to match the store’s curio items. Instead, the casually dressed elderly man, who bore a resemblance to the host of a children’s television show, calmly assessed him.

John was tempted to say it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Instead he asked, "How did you know my name?"

"Pardon my abruptness, Mr. Finnegan, Norm Bearde called and told me of you quitting Info Handlers", the old man replied. "I’ve done favors for Norm in the past and maybe I can offer you some suggestions for whatever you’re planning."

John glanced at the business card given to him by the security guard at Info. Despite the explanation, he found the whole situation disconcerting.

"I appreciated you and Norm offering to help me find another job. But...", Finnegan pointed around the room, "This doesn’t seem to be the right place for a recruiting business."

The man in green smiled, "True, it lacks the sterile, oak veneer atmosphere of career counseling, resume sessions and role playing for interviewing skills."

The elderly man continued, "I’ve spent the last few decades in what’s now called ‘The Head Hunting’ industry. To be honest, I grew bored with the whole affair and I recently decided to return to my curio heritage, so to speak."

He stood quiescent, as if contemplating the drone of street traffic and the shop pendulum clock ticking away the seconds.

"But enough about me, I can always do a favor for an old friend and match your work interests with clients."

The man with the green sweater looked up into John’s eyes, "You seem to have grown weary of being a rodent test subject for the corporate version of the Skinner box."

John nodded, "Slaving away in a cubicle isn’t appealing to me right now. It seems the fashion in business is to treat employees like ignorant serfs." He paused, "Call me old fashioned, but I still believe in competence, respect and teamwork in any endeavor."

The words came out of John’s mouth unbiddened. Puzzled, he wondered why he decided to spill his mental guts here with this stranger?

The old gentleman chuckled, "Well it’s June and you got a few months of planning ahead of you." Fingering his sweater, the man glanced at the poster. "Are you contemplating skiing? How about a return to the days of being a ski bum?"

John shook his head, "Those days ended when the mega ski resorts took over the slopes. The only people who can afford to play in those snow palaces nowadays are Trust Fund kids and the idle rich."

The shop keeper mused, "Would you be willing to work for room and board? I know a man in Granby, Colorado with a job opening for outdoor field work in Granby and a few other places. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to run...er, I mean ski in the snow."

"What kind of work?"

"I’d best let my Granby contact from Never Summer explain the job to you. In fact, he’ll be here tomorrow at 9 in the morning. Judging by your character, your qualities are just what he is looking for. If the two of you hit it off, I can arrange a one year sabbatical."

John studied the shop keeper. A puzzling job interview, and the old man was already talking terms as if he had already accepted. Way too premature. Normally, he'd be badgering for details. Oh what the hay, he convinced himself, an informal chat should be good practice for rebuilding interviewing skills. The man from Granby? Probably looking to fill county maintenance jobs.

"Sure, I’d be glad to stop by at 9 AM."

The odd shopkeeper clapped his hands. "Excellent! By the way, I have a small gift for you."

The man walked behind the counter and opened a storage drawer. After rummaging around, he pulled out a roll of patterned, woolen cloth. A neck muffler. He handed it to John.

Finnegan said, "Really, I can’t accept it without paying for it."

"Take it, I insist. Besides, it’s an exact copy of the muffler the skier in the wall poster is wearing. Why don’t you see how the scarf fits?"

Automatically, John unrolled the muffler and wrapped it around his neck. Not sheep wool, but made from soft animal fibers with an oddly familiar odor to it. He couldn’t quite place it.

The aged shopkeeper smiled, "A perfect fit, I’ll see you soon!"

The old man walked to the back of the shop, leaving John alone. A very odd man and what a strange day it’s been. He glanced at his watch, it was past five PM. Time to leave. He pulled open the door and left, the silver bell jangled at his exit.

John walked to his car. Ripples of June heat rose upward from the black asphalt parking lot. He opened the car door, almost dropping his car keys from sweaty palms. He sniffed the air; the odor of a wet dog. He had noticed it hovering around him since he’d left the shop. Yanking the door open, he flopped into the driver’s seat and shut the car door. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he realized he was still wearing the muffler! In this heat! No wonder he was sweating! How could he be so absent minded? The wet dog scent; it seemed to seep out from the scarf. A muffler made from dog hair?

John found his thoughts sluggishly drifting into sleep, he closed his eyes.

A man's eyelids opened to a darkened car interior. The parking lot was wrapped in night and empty, except for his car. How long had he’d been asleep? The car clock numerals glowed in the dark; 12:30 AM.

The furry muffler had fallen from his neck and seemed to be wrapped around his chest. John could feel it moving about like a living thing. He tried to pull it off, but collapsed to the seat in pain, arms and joints throbbing. The muffler squeezed like a constrictor, popping noises erupted from his back and chest. A sensation like hot wax spread outward as the muffler seemed to melt away. He gasped at feeling his shoulder blades migrating on their own accord towards his sides. A shirt ripped open as his ribcage narrowed and arched outward. Something snagged his face like a bed of fishing hooks, yanking a narrowing muzzle forward.

Gagging and breathing in the nauseating odors of shoes, oil and vinyl, he reached for the door handle, clawing the handle with stiff, unresponsive hands. The door opened and a malformed being stumbled outside, panting noisily. It shuffled away, struggling to stay upright, trailing streamers of shredded clothing.

A strange shape stumbled towards the shop entrance and tugged at the door. Locked. He whimpered, he had to get inside the curio shop; had to...must return. A gray service door opened. He limped towards a familiar figure standing in the doorway.

"Do you need some help?" It was the old man from the curio shop.

The beast nodded and relaxed, he struggled to keep his balance as he followed the man down a service hallway and into a storage room.

"Lie down on this cushion, you’ll feel better in the morning."

The furry creature complied. He tried to speak, words battling for clarity from an unfamiliar tongue, "Interview...", he whined, "the interview?"

The shop owner spoke in a soothing tone, "Easy now, just relax, don’t fret, you’ll be well prepared for tomorrow. Get some sleep."

John Finnegan closed his eyes and dreamed of crossing open, snow filled, ground.

* * * * *

South of Granby, Colorado, spectators milled around the raucous winter carnival atmosphere. A chorus of howls, sharps and flats split the air. Bundled men and women dashing between rows of pick-up trucks and dog sleds parked in the snow. At the starting line, taut, lean animals strained at colored harnesses. The word "GO" triggered an explosion of canine legs; hurling a sled like a rocket down the serpentine race course. Another dog team crossed the finish line; panting tongues, tails curled upwards in satisfaction. The musher grinning at a well run race. An announcers voice proclaimed race results from the Granby Sled Dog Classic.

Wrapped in warm winter clothing, an observer wandered around the lot. He watched a musher attending to eight dogs, chained to a drag line, resting after an invigorating sled race.

The observer called out "Tom Hassan! How are the dogs doing!"

The musher turned around. He recognized the curio shop keeper. Tom grinned and shouted, "Hey! What brings you to Granby! Come on over!"

The shop owner waddled towards the pickup truck and shook Tom’s hand. The musher cast an affectionate glance at his dog team, the best he had in years.

"How’s the new dog working out?"

"The most honest wheel dog I’ve seen", Tom replied, "Pulls his heart out for you. The other dogs welcomed him from the start, just like he’d always been part of the kennel. When I first met him last June, I knew he was the dog we needed."

"I’m glad he’s found his niche here."

The shop owner smiled inwardly at finding the candidate for a job opening at Never Summer Kennels. He looked at the Alaskan Husky, the latest addition to Tom’s team. The random colored canine, called Finnegan’s Race, barked a greeting.

Tom paused for a moment. "I realize he’s on loan for a year, I was wondering if..."

The shop keeper mused, "Well, breeding issues are negotiable. As for renewal of contract, it’ll be up to our friend."

The Alaskan Husky whuffed and warbled a response.

The old gentleman from The Shapers chuckled, "I think you can count on Finnegan being on sabbatical at Never Summer Kennels for years to come."