When Lauren contacted me about writing for The Mountain Culture Blog, I’m going to be honest here, I was a little nervous. What do I know about the culture of mountain communities? My pedigree in the world of “action/adventure sports” is in the fringe wing of a tiny sport; raise your hand if you know what C-1 slalom is.

As such, my interactions with more mainstream participants of sports like Mountain Biking, Skiing and Climbing, were somewhat few and far between. Not that I didn’t do these things, just not often enough to get a handle on them. However, I retired from Slalom in 2005, moved to Montana and began my career as a Weekend Warrior (a.k.a. “Gumby”) in all the sports I had neglected as a slalom racer.

I think that the distance with which I initially viewed the outdoor community allowed a more honest view of my subject. I had a stellar opportunity to judge with disdain and the high-minded purity that one can only attain by the feelings of superiority I had developed in Slalom, emotions which merely masked my insecurities in my new role as “novice.”

One of the first things I noticed, and the first subject upon which I would like to blog, is the ubiquitous Mountain Town Dog.

Remember, I said that I tainted my views with judgment, thus the real topic of this blog isn’t the Dogs, but the true brilliance of being a Mountain Town Cat owner.

I will freely admit that I once wanted a dog: a big shaggy drooling monster that would follow me on runs, hang out at the crag, tear up the skin track and be 100 percent devoted to me and only me. We all know the dog. The Aussie Shepherd/Collie/Cow-dog hyper thing, the pure bred (and insane) hunting breeds, and the big husky Newfoundland miniature horse bear-like dogs. Yes, they are nice and they are devoted but they are like toddlers that never grow up. A smelly, needy two-year-old that will never become self reliant.

Choosing the right dog is of paramount importance, you must get a dog that is the four-legged extension of your own self image. But, when it comes to cats, they choose you. My cats walked in the back door one afternoon and never left. Notice I said plural cats. I have two. I’m that proud. No one who sees my cats can play pop psychologist on me based on their breed, unless it’s something like, “wow, that guy sure is a Gumby, his cat has no tail.”

Ego aside, I can sum up the real reason I will never own a dog with two words: “Party” and “Bowl.” If a dog is a two-year-old that will never grow up, my cats are teenagers that I can leave with a $20 and instructions to order a pizza a day while I’m gone. Just like a teenager, my cats’ love isn’t unconditional; they are selective with their affection and lash out when the mood strikes them. This makes their love all the more special when I am deemed worthy of petting them. Plus, on a cold morning I don’t really mind getting sandwiched by the little buggers.

The Mountain Town Culture puts the dog on a pedestal, or at least in clear view in the back of a truck or Subaru. Dogs are the constant companions of every iconic Mountain Town Hero seen on the river, at the bar, on the slopes and at the bottom of the crag faithfully waiting for the master who is stuck on yet another day trip because he or she couldn’t find anybody to feed, exercise and cuddle the dog for the weekend. All the while the gumby warrior is out of town while his cats enjoy an empty house and a big fat party bowl of food.

After years of being a Whitewater Slalom geek, Chris Ennis is slowly reentering the outdoor community with weekly doses of gumby-like behavior as a chump climber and skier. For those of you who commit a little too fully, Ennis strongly recommends returning to the life of a weekend warrior. Incompetence is shockingly pleasant. The Missoula, MT-based weekend warrior is biding his time while he waits for his girlfriend/partner/sugar mama (”after 10 years, can we come up with a decent title?”) to finish grad school so that he can return, kicking and screaming, to Academia.