It is 1896 in the Yukon Territory, Canada. The largest gold strike in the annals of human history has just been made; however, word of the discovery will not reach the outside world for another year.
By happenstance, a fifty-nine-year-old Huck Finn and his lady friend, Molly Lee, are on hand, but they are not interested in gold. They have come to that neck of the woods seeking adventure.
Someone should have warned them, “Be careful what you wish for.”
When disaster strikes, they volunteer to save the day by making an arduous six hundred mile journey by dog sled in the depths of a Yukon winter. They race against time, nature, and man. With the temperature hovering around seventy degrees below zero, they must fight every day if they are to live to see the next.
On the frozen trail, they are put upon by murderers, hungry wolves, and hostile Indians, but those adversaries have nothing over the weather. At seventy below, your spit freezes a foot from your face. Your cheeks burn—your skin turns purple and black as it dies from the cold. You are in constant danger of losing fingers and toes to frostbite.
It is into this world that Huck and Molly race.
They cannot stop. They cannot turn back. They can only go on. Lives hang in the balance—including theirs.
My name is Andrew Joyce and I write books for a living. Camillia has been kind enough to allow me a little space on her blog to promote my new novel RESOLUTION: Huck Finn’s Greatest Adventure. I think it’s a good book, but what do I know? Anyway, I’m kinda shy about tooting my own horn. So I think I’ll turn things over to my dog Danny—Danny the Dog—to toot it for me. So without further ado, here’s Danny.
Andrew has interrupted my busy existence to help him out here. For a person who works with words for a living, he has very little to say in real life. He wants me to tout his book for him, but I don’t think I will. Instead, I think I’ll tell you a little about my life.
I’m Danny the Dog and I’m gonna tell you of my two recent days of misery.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning . . . I mean the very beginning.
Ever since I was a little shaver, my human has always kept me near. Before he got into the writing racket, he worked for himself. So I could always go with him on his jobs. We’ve been together thirteen years or more and I’ve gotten used to him. When I was younger, he did leave me home on occasion, but who cared? There was a cat next door that I used to watch from the window as it sat under a tree. That was fun, and it kept me occupied all day. I had a doggie door and a fenced-in yard. I was in Dog Heaven! Anyway, here’s the thing: Somewhere along the way, I got used to having Andrew around. Five years ago he stopped working and became a writer, so he’s home all the time now—he never goes out. Maybe that’s it; maybe I’ve got used to having him around. But whatever it is, I like it when he’s close by, but don’t tell him and don’t ask me why.
So here’s what happened. The night before last, he went out for the first time in a long time without taking me. We now live on a boat and there’s no yard for me to hang out in when he’s not there. No squirrels to chase. As he was leaving, I asked him to take me with him. I know I was barking, but he understands me. “You have to stay,” he said. I mean, is that any way to speak to man’s best friend?
Well, he was gone for only a few hours and when he came home, I wagged my tail until it almost fell off.
After that, I reckoned everything would go back to normal. But no. Andrew got up bright and early the next morning (something he never does) and after I took him for a walk, he started to leave me . . . again! I couldn’t believe it, not again. It was invidious of him to say the least. And I let Andrew know it in no uncertain terms. Well, it didn’t matter what I said; he left me alone anyway. And this time he was gone all day.
I was unhappy and kind of lonely. So I got up on the chair where he sits when he writes, and spent the day there waiting for him to come home.
When Andrew finally came in, I cried a little bit (the first time in my life). But I’ve got to hand it to the old guy. When he saw how lonely I had been, he told me that he would never leave me alone again for more than a few minutes. I don’t know what minutes are, but by his voice and the way he scratched my neck, I know he loves me. So I forgave him.
That’s about it for now. Oh yeah, I almost forgot—go out and buy Andrew’s new book. He’s not a bad sort . . . not really . . . and you’d make an old man happy.
This is Andrew again. On behalf of Danny and myself, I would like to thank Camillia for having us over. It’s been a real pleasure.