Mushy for Huskies

Fred and I have had at least one Siberian Husky for most of our marriage. They are the most beautiful dog in the world, and certainly make life interesting. Last year we lost Beatle to kidney failure and Kimo to old age, but the remaining three are a big part of my daily life.
Kaya is black and white, blue-eyed, and the mother of the other two. She has had two litters of puppies--one by C-section--is overweight, rags at anyone who even glances at her food dish, and has gotten increasingly cranky in the past six months. (Is it any wonder I relate to this dog??) She is alomost 91 in dog years, but still has more energy than I do.
Her sons, Bum and Koko, almost 9 now, are all-white with blue eyes. They could be twins, but have very different personalities. Bum is the alpha male--macho, hyperactive, and often silly. Every morning he greets me with the expectant look that means "Is today a walk day?! Is today a walk day?!" When I pick up the red harness, he jumps all over me and slathers my face with kisses the whole time I'm putting it on him. He loves belly rubs and dancing.
Koko is more quiet and reserved, standing quietly for the harness and only taking off after I give the ok. For being a sturdy 75-pounder and bigger than Bum, he is a fraidy cat and defers to his brother and mom in most things. He's a handsome dog who would look studly on the cover of Dog Fancy--and he loves hugs and ear scratches.
Those are their endearing qualities. These boys have caused me plenty of pain and humiliation over the years. The literal pain of scrapes and bruises from being dragged down the hill at our Elk Mound house, the end of their 20-foot leash tied around my waist. However, I'd prefer the pain to the humiliation. Though they've settled down more now, in their prime they were regular Houdinis at slipping their harnesses and escaping their kennel. They chewed through the wire fence, pulled the gate off its latches with their teeth, and stood on each other's backs to try the Berlin Wall Break-out. (I saw this more than once!!) They got out of the shed through a 6-inch gap of loose siding--I honestly thought they'd disappeared into thin air!
One March, apparently wild with spring fever despite having no testicles, they got out 3 days in a row. Beatle was alive then, too, and the three of them made a beeline for the farm a mile down the road. The first day they killed $70 worth of chickens. The second day I stood in the barnyard, ankle-deep in cow crap, begging Bum to come to me. He ran by me with a look that said "Can't you see I'm chasing a goose??!" The third day, I could tell that the man-of-few words farmer thought I was nuts to be controlled by 3 delinquent canines. I followed them up hill and down, hot dogs and bacon treats in hand, promising chew bones or ear scratches to no avail. They could obviously read between the lines that I really wanted to wring their furry necks. Over the years a "phone tree" developed through the valley--we were probably on the neighbors' speed dial. "Your dogs are out!" "They just went over the hill to the farm!" "They're after my cats!" I cursed the mutts and plotted dire punishments, at my low point telling the girls I was going to give them away.
It didn't happen. No matter what they do, I love them. I'd pay for the damage, clean the crap off my shoes, and forgive them. Like having kids--but that's a story for another day.