In a quiet little kingdom disguised as a suburban neighborhood, there reigned a queen of unparalleled beauty and absurdity, Princess Athena, the husky. With her dazzling coat of black, grey, and white, she strutted around like a runway model who accidentally stumbled into a dog park. But her pièce de résistance, the thing that made her truly unique, were her eyes, one sky blue like a crystal-clear lake in the Alps, the other chestnut brown like a Starbucks latte in autumn. She was, without question, the Beyoncé of the canine world.
But don’t let the beauty fool you. Athena wasn’t just a princess, she was a tyrant, a mastermind, and, according to local reports, the most notorious digger this side of the garden fence. Her hobbies included aerial gymnastics (also known as launching herself over the sofa like a wolf-shaped missile), blanket thievery of the highest order, and the ancient husky art of “being offended by grass.”
Grass, you ask? Yes, grass. Athena could march like a war general through fields of mud so thick you’d lose a boot, but present her with the innocent, freshly mowed lawn of her own back garden, and suddenly she transformed into a Victorian lady who just spotted a mouse. Each paw was lifted and placed with the disgust of someone walking barefoot through a gas station bathroom.
“Miss Pants does not do grass,” her humans would sigh as she stood frozen, paw raised, glaring at the lawn as though it had personally insulted her mother.
But do not fear, for Athena was never alone in her reign of chaos. At her side was her younger brother Obito, the Malamute. Imagine, if you will, a bear cub stuffed into a dog costume, then given the soul of a clumsy golden retriever. That was Obito. He had a black face, tan eyebrows that constantly made him look surprised, and a fluffy body that resembled a living beanbag chair. And then there were his paws. Oh, the paws. Vast, comical, horse-sized snowshoes that looked like they were borrowed from an entirely different animal. He had been tripping over them since puppyhood, and while he was finally growing into them, his coordination remained at the level of “drunk toddler at a wedding.”
Obito’s love language was both simple and terrifying: wet, sloppy kisses. He didn’t just lick; he attempted oral deep-sea diving. If Athena was elegance, Obito was a flood warning. His goofy grin could light up the room, and his sheer enthusiasm was enough to knock over small furniture, unsuspecting guests, and occasionally himself.
Together, Athena and Obito were like the perfect storm, brains and beauty paired with brawn and blunder. If they were a crime duo, Athena would be the jewel thief, slipping through laser beams with style, while Obito would be the getaway driver who accidentally reversed into the police station.
Their daily adventures read like a sitcom script written by someone on too much coffee. 
Winter arrived like an over-enthusiastic intern with no sense of boundaries, dumping snow across the land (a.k.a. the garden and surrounding muddy fields). For normal families, snow meant hot chocolate, scarves, and charming snowmen with little carrot noses. For Athena and Obito, however, it meant war.
It all started when Athena, elegant and cunning, perched on her snow mound like some frosted queen. Her mismatched eyes glittered with intent. To her, the snow was not for play, it was a stage, a battlefield, and also, conveniently, the perfect cover for digging operations. She had already tunneled half the flowerbed into something resembling the London Underground, and she wasn’t stopping.
“Today,” Athena declared in a voice only she could hear, “I shall build the most magnificent snow fortress. And from within it, I will rule.”
Obito didn’t walk into the snow, he arrived. With the grace of an avalanche and the coordination of a baby giraffe, he charged headlong into the powder like it owed him money. The ground shook. Birds fled. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off. His oversized paws, Mr Toe Beans in their full glory, kicked up enough snow to bury a small child’s sled.
And then, smiling his goofball smile, he decided to build his own snowman.
Now, Athena built with precision. She rolled snowballs with the careful artistry of Michelangelo. She placed them delicately, aligning angles, sculpting curves, carving fine details with her dainty paws.
Obito, meanwhile, believed snowman construction required three steps:
1. Slam your giant head into the snow.
2. Lick everything within reach.
3. Hope for the best.
His snowman was less “Frosty the Snowman” and more “Avalanche Victim #3.” Its head leaned dangerously, its middle resembled a lumpy potato, and instead of a carrot nose, Obito proudly shoved in half a stick he’d been carrying for three weeks. He wagged his tail with such force that it decapitated his own creation.
Athena, observing from her icy throne, smirked. “Amateur.”
But then… chaos.
Because Athena, in her infinite husky mischief, decided it was not enough to simply win. Oh no, she had to sabotage.With the stealth of a furry ninja, she leapt over Obito’s flailing body, snatched his beloved stick-nose, and sprinted across the snow like a banshee in eyeliner.
Obito, being both affectionate and dim-witted, didn’t think, She has stolen my stick. He thought, She has invited me to chase her in the Most Glorious Game Ever Invented.
And so began the Great Snow Chase of Legend.
Through gardens, fields, and one very confused neighbor’s driveway they tore, Athena zigzagging like a professional athlete, Obito bounding like an enthusiastic tumble dryer on legs. Snow sprayed in every direction. Athena cackled internally as she soared over fences, while Obito plowed directly through them, his enormous body leaving behind cartoon-style dog-shaped holes.
At one point, Athena attempted a dramatic slide under a hedge. Obito, unwilling to be outdone, attempted the same, except he got stuck halfway, tail wagging furiously as if signaling for backup. The humans had to dig him out with a shovel while Athena stood nearby, stick in her mouth, smug as a cat at a dog show.
By the time Obito was freed, Athena had already expanded her snow fortress into a fully functional palace complete with tunnels, ramparts, and because she’s Athena, an indoor blanket storage system. Obito lumbered over, proudly dragging a replacement stick the size of a small tree, and promptly collapsed on top of her masterpiece, flattening it into an unrecognisable pancake.
The chaos didn’t end there. Their snowmen became collateral damage in an escalating war. Athena tunneled beneath Obito’s snow pile, causing it to collapse like a failed soufflé. Obito retaliated by body-slamming her fortress walls. Athena countered by stealing his replacement stick and burying it in a hole only she knew the location of. Obito counter-countered by giving her the wettest, sloppiest kiss of her life until she released the stick in disgust.
By the end of the day, the garden looked less like a winter wonderland and more like the aftermath of a snowplow accident. The humans had lost all hope of rebuilding the lawn come spring. The snowmen were gone, replaced by craters, broken twigs, and one lopsided monstrosity that looked like it had seen things it could never unsee.
Athena sat proudly atop her last standing snowball, fur dusted with snowflakes, looking like the tragic heroine of an epic film. Obito, tongue lolling, belly in the snow, wore the goofiest grin imaginable, tail sweeping enough snow to accidentally destroy a small shrub.
And in that moment, one thing was clear, Athena may have won the title of Most Mischievous, but Obito had won the title of Most Joyful. Together, they were champions of chaos, emperors of mayhem, and co-conspirators in the complete annihilation of winter decorum.
The neighbors would whisper about it for years, the time two dogs waged war in the snow, leaving behind a battlefield of sticks, craters, and laughter.
And thus, the Annual Snowman Building Competition was forever banned… or at least postponed until next year.

©️Lainey - Intwined.blog