“DOGS OF WAR”

Dedicated to all the men and women who at one point did wear the uniform and now find themselves with some form of PTSD. - Remember that you are not alone feeling this way. If you find yourself engulfed with thoughts of suicide, do not hesitate to reach out and talk about it to someone. It can only help.

To the spouses of these men and women that did wear the uniform, we might not say it enough but “Thank You for your love and compassion”.

“DOGS OF WAR”

For the longest time, he had been doing almost fine. When he had chosen six years ago to deliberately live a simple semi-secluded lifestyle, this had helped tremendously in forgetting that “previous life”. His nightmares were re-occurring less often, his mood swings were less intense and he could actually find that urge to laugh out loud when in good company.

But unfortunately this was not the case during this month of October as a multitude of events were making it that this “someone” had crept up in his head and this person wasn’t the “musher”. This uninvited guess was that entity that he knew so well but also that despised “evil side” that he had learnt to keep under lock and key. This “someone” was at best, a “beast of a man” that had been created by a well oiled and finely tuned military establishment. Like the many others before, during and after, he had been molded for one purpose and one purpose only and the mandate was quite clear – Produce super soldiers with robot like behaviors that can be controlled and can be unleashed by the governing body anytime they see the necessity arise. Unknown to him then, he had become one of the millions of “pawns” in the various World Class Chess Matches who had been brain washed in thinking that their services to their countries were absolutely indispensable. Like the other Chess pieces on the front line, he then would walk around nonchalantly, chest pumped and head high, truly believing that it was allowed to sanction someone else in a “Kill or be killed” scenario…

Anyway, that was to be the theory behind this doctrine and it would have been more than all right if the “puppet masters” could have controlled completely the minds of these individuals. However, this would never be the case as somewhere and sometimes maybe buried real deep inside under that “Kevlar” armored plated vest, exists the soul and beating heart of a person of good scruples. And that Ladies and Gentlemen is where it gets complicated.

The soldier that is asked to go to far away lands so to enforce the dictated policies of his country, does it because that’s what he’s trained for and that’s what he was ordered to do. The stressful external conditions that he encounters are way beyond what the common mortal will deal with on a daily basis and something that if you haven’t experienced it, you will never understand. Under these hostile and dangerous conditions, if the soldier is to survive, he must develop that much needed sixth sense that could be categorized as a constant state of “hyper-vigilance”. When in this mode, he becomes super alert and like “Spiderman” all his senses are tingling. If this is not grand enough, when he is to be “combat tested”, he enters an even higher sphere of euphoria which the new generation of veterans refers to as being in the “zone”. That’s when the brain is invaded by this sensation that can best be described as being on “morphine laced with steroids”. What this intriguing and very addictive “high” is all about, is what we call that “Adrenaline Rush”. This hormone/neurotransmitter is found in the body and when called upon, it increases heart rate, constricts blood vessels, dilates air passages and assists the nervous system when dealing with the phenomena called the “the fight or flight” syndrom.

In lameman’s terms, it is a chemical that is released as a defense mechanism through the entire body and brain. Its sole function is to put the recipient in a highest state of alertness when facing any type of threatening situation. It is most useful when facing danger but also most addictive. Consequently, with these high levels of euphoric episodes comes real serious downsides. Depleted of its reserve of adrenaline, the body goes into recuperation mode and tiredness sets in. The soldier that has to deal with an environment where violence and death is a daily determinant, lives with these “Ups and Downs” cycles constantly. And if continuously bombarded and that the body has no time to replenish itself with a new supply of these hormones, the brain warns the body of this shortfall and orders it to go into self-preservation mode. At this time, the body automatically shuts down certain functions that it considers non essential and sets itself up in survival mode, something that we would recognize as “depression”. The more you tax your system for the adrenaline, the more acute the delivery of the hormone is. Of course there is to be a downside to this and it’s the fact that it takes longer and longer for the body to recuperate from the last “rush”. So when the soldier has pushed his luck way beyond what his body can supply in adrenaline, it stops to function properly and he can and probably will develop a medical condition associated with “chronic depression”.

You think that this is complicated? Well let me tell you! We’ve just started scratching the surface. In the combat environment, this acquired taste for the “stuff” is most valuable if our soldier is to stay alive. However, he eventually develops some sort of habit and becomes what they call an “Adrenaline Junkie”. Just like any other addict hooked on whatever the addiction is, in his case, he needs to have this “hyper-vigilance” state of mind stimulated and this constantly. This is where another additional problem lies. The brain doesn’t recognize the nature of the threat. It simply automatically and unconsciously responds to a demand and that’s what makes it hard for the soldier to adapt to a lifestyle outside that combat environment. Although he is conscious that he is back home safe amongst friends, tucked away, locked in the back of his mind, he’s still in “full alert” ready to “rock and roll”. And that’s what makes it dangerous. He is so accustomed to counter violence with violence that it becomes his main tool used to address any stressful situation, regardless of the size. It doesn’t matter what the stress factor is, he lashes out with this most basic instinct of survival. Now, if he’s lucky enough to be aware of this downfall, he tries to control these bouts of fury but unfortunately, the anger boils inside of him and just like a pressure cooker that’s left on the stove on high heat for too long, he’s ready to explode at any moment. This makes it that his existence is chaotic. He walks around all day with this feeling of animosity and resentment towards his fellowman and brings this to bed with him at night. Of course, still upset and even angered, he’ll have a hard time falling asleep and if he does get to “catnap”, this is certainly not a peaceful rest. An “Up and Down Yo-Yo like mood swing” pattern eventually sets in, leaving this walking wounded tired, depressed and living in some sort of “Zombie” world.
In World War One, they used to call it “Shell Shock”. During World War Two, the new name given then for this condition was “Battle Fatigue”. Today, it is known as “Post Traumatic Stress” and is identified by the medical profession as a psychological disorder that develops in some individuals who have had major traumatic experiences (for example, have been in a serious accident or gone through a war like arena). The “zoned out” person is typically numb at first but later certain symptoms eventually evolve to include depression, excessive irritability, guilt (for having survived while others died), recurring nightmares, flashbacks to a traumatic scene and of course over exaggerated reaction to stressful situations and/or sudden noises. Referred to in its abbreviated form as PTSD, it became known as such in the 70s when adjustment problems to a civilian life of some Vietnam veterans were to be recognized.
“The truth has got to come out, Gino! The truth has got to come out!” That’s what this head attached to this exposed rib cage was always repeating to him in this same repetitious dream. It had been ages since being visited by the ghost of this army buddy “Daniel Gunther” and this particular nightmare had sort of faded away over time. However the accumulated stressors and lack of proper sleep during the last few weeks had provided the right conditions so to make it resurface.
It was always the same reverie. The Military Police would enter an autopsy room to identify the remains of this soldier. There they were, spread on top of this cold stainless steel table, left there after an attendant had tried to put the various body parts together so to make it look half human. Although totally mangled from the blast, he could recognize the face of the individual by that friendly smirk that “Dan” always seem to have on. He would confirm his identity and start walking away when the corpse would grab the policeman’s combat shirt with his right arm and start yelling, “The truth has got to come out, Gino! The truth has got to come out.” Scared shitless, the witness would try to get away but the arm would detach itself from Gunther’s body and it would be left dangling, the hand in a tight fisted grip, holding on to him.
Of course this was just a dream and of course then WO Roussel had only seen photos of this lifeless body as they were attachments to a police report but still to this day, the images of seeing the mutilated body of his “weight room” partner, haunted him. When he had come across it in his office back then in 1993, he had found it stuffed away in the back of a desk drawer. He had perused the said report but there weren’t too many details as to what had transpired. The investigating officer had done a crappy job at putting together a true picture of what had occurred during that fatal afternoon when Master Corporal Daniel Gunther was killed in his APC by an anti-tank rocket. Eventually, over the years, further details would come to light that would seem to indicate that the truth and nature of the incident had been somewhat covered up. Someone had taken on the job of running “tackle” so that it would not interfere with the agenda of certain politicians. I guess after the “Somalia” fiasco, some of them were afraid that the backlashes of a dead soldier in another unpopular war might have severe consequences back home. It was an election year in Canada and the Liberal Party did not have a strong grip on or many seats in Quebec. Subsequently, it was imperative that the proud reputation of the Royal 22nd Regiment be spared and protected as it represented the pride and joy of the Canadian Armed Forces in that French province.
On that particular evening on the 29th October, 2011, he was not suffering certain symptoms described in the previous paragraphs but had been swallowed up entirely by all of them. His evil side had almost taken complete control over his emotions and he would need to deal with this. If draconian measures needed to be applied, so be it, they would be used. He was dead tired from battling with the “Evil Wolf” and a show down was the order of the day. More than a few little incidents had been added up on the already huge pile and not only was he feeling the weight of it, he was collapsing under the “shit load”.
Amongst other things, the dogs had been pissed on by skunks and the nightly hunts and killings of these intruders was a definite stressor. You know that the guy is not in the right frame of mind, when after delivering a blast of “12 gauge” buckshots at the vermins, he puts the barrel of the shotgun to his nose so to take in the fumes and enjoy the intriguing smell of gun powder smoke. Two of his likeable mutts had taken off on an adventure, met up with a porcupine and tangled with it. While “Thunder” had come back to the barn, her face full of quills, her sister “Lightning” never did return and was up till now, presumed dead. The news of the tragic death of a Canadian soldier by the name of Master Corporal Byron GREFF would not help either. He was to become the 158th casualty that this country would encounter in Afghanistan. Like all the other “Boyz” that had died before him, those who had made the ultimate sacrifices had a real severe negative effect on our musher. It was close to his best friend’s one year anniversary as “Bruce” had died of cancer on the 30th October, 2010 and this was a hard pill that he had not yet accepted to swallow let alone digest it. Through the couple of weeks before Remembrance Day, the Government of the day was plugging their propaganda on every possible media sources, advocating that we should remember the great work that “Our Troops” are doing or had done. This was fine but his memories of his “war efforts” did not involve glory and ticker tape parades. Rather, his thoughts were drawn back to the atrocities of the Bosnia/Croatia conflict where the United Nations had totally failed in bringing stability to the country. What was to push him right close over the edge, was an incident where while his dogs and him were training on a public road in the forest, they were stopped at gun point by two bear hunters. It wasn’t bad enough that they wanted him to turn around, they had ended up playing “chicken”. Nobody was flinching and this till the musher made his move. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle with his right hand and without batting an eye, he told the man holding the other end, “You either shoot right now or get this fucken thing out of my face. I’m not in the mood to play chicken shit games. If you don’t move it out of my face, I’ll rip it out of your hands and shove it up your ass. Pray to God that it’s empty!” For some reason, they allowed him to go on his “merry” way. What these two “red necks” didn’t realize was that they had just lit another fuse under his ass and he had been served with a violent dose of adrenaline. However and unconsciously, their camouflaged garbs had brought him back to a time when him and his navigator, a young Kenyan Corporal by the name of Thomas OGETANKE had been barred from carrying on with their patrol by two Croatian Serb soldiers. He had strongly insisted that they be allowed to gain access as they represented the “UN” but he would soon lose this argument. It had kind of made an impression when one of the two tall sentries had raised his left arm and the turret of this khaki green T-55 tank that was parked behind him, started to slowly turn its gun 180 degrees only to rest its barrel on the hood of the white VW Golf. I don’t know but when you stare at this huge black round orifice sitting there maybe two feet in front of your windshield and you know that at the other end of that extended tube sits a “100 mm” shell, well you tend to have a renewed sense of co-operation and you back the hell out of there. Once they had returned to their garrison in Knin later that day, they had filed a formal complaint through the proper channels but never did get feedback from them. Instead, information started trickling in that ethnic cleansing was taking place in the small villages surrounding the region of the city of BIHAC. It started with reports of bodies floating downstream on the Una river and was to be later confirmed when “UN” patrols would be allowed entry to the region. There, they found bombed out and completely destroyed towns, emptied of its populations. A tattle tale that would indicate that some barbaric activity had occurred in the area would be the hundreds of light blue latex gloves contaminated with human blood that were found discarded all over the place. To paraphrase the “Situation” report, it indicated that a well prepared group of men had attended the area with a well engineered plan. In location, they had systematically annihilated the Muslim citizens of the towns. To this day, the identity of the “butchers” in these “Death Squads” is still unknown but it was suspected that they were mercenaries with narrow ties to white supremacy “Neo-Nazi” groups from Germany, Austria, Rumania and the United States of America. All this information is not new as it is a matter of public records. However, what has been hidden for all those twenty years, is the fact that some “United Nations” soldiers had had an active contribution in the carrying out of these massacres. It turns out that an investigation done by the United Nations Military Police had revealed that a number of high ranking officers of the Kenyan Contingent in Sector South, had orchestrated a well organized racket where they were involved in Black Market activities and the illegal sale of United Nations fuel to Serbian civilians and its military. The leaders in these criminal activities had misled their subordinates who obeyed them with obvious blind loyalty. Throughout the interviews, it had been determined that close to 500,000 liters had been stolen by these gentlemen thieves. And adding insult to injury, these officers had abused their positions of authority to trick their subordinates into assisting them with delivering illegal fuel and this with “UN lorries”. While the United States and three other European countries had managed to push through the UN Security Council, a stiff punitive resolution that would place an “Oil Embargo” on Serbia and its satellite states, some greedy entrepreneurial spirits wearing blue berets on their heads, were supplying some of the belligerent parties of the “Republic of Krajina” with petroleum products through the back door. Since the “Intelligence” on the Croatians side was to indicate that the other warring party had very limited quantities of this precious commodity, they had decided to take this opportunity to move the confrontation line in a more westerly direction. Unknown to them, more than four full divisions of Serbian military Forces, was there, topped with fuel and ready to welcome them. Both sides blamed the other for not respecting the “Cease Fire” and they waged war against each other, killing with extreme prejudice, any civilians found in their way.

To this day, the musher still had this bitter taste in his mouth about that piece of the puzzle. Ever since his tour of duty over there, the month of October had always brought back awful memories of his time spent in the “Balkans”. Where people wanted to remember the “good times”, he was ever trying to forget that chapter of his life. Not a single day would go by without him wondering if things might have been different if the sale of “Black Market” fuel would not have not taken place. He would continuously analyze in his mind the prospect of what might have happened, if the authorities might have had a better control of its delivery system. “What if the Serbians would have been left in a position where they did not have the fuel to run their “war machine”, could UNPROFOR have maybe prevented the massacres of the “BIHAC” region or the “MEDAK” pocket. Like the many other soldiers that had served on that particular mission, he would be left with a real deep sense of shame for something that he had never had any control over.

So waking up from that dreaded nightmare again drenched in cold sweat, he found himself disoriented, sitting in his favorite blue chair on the porch of the “Outpost”. You know that a person has reached the end of his rope when he’s sitting there, staring at a rusted old non-functional shotgun mounted on the wall and is questioning his self-worth. He definitely needed to find some answers real soon because contrary to the relic on the wall, he had brought with him his old “security blanket”. There it was, tucked away under his left armpit, snug and warm in its leather shoulder holster, that dependable “Colt 45” semi-automatic pistol. Yup, right there and then, he was dead tired of dealing with all this mental anguish and Yup, there it was on stand-by with one round up the chamber and another one in the clip.

During all this time, “Mosqua” was sitting there, his back in a corner, looking at the man with this concerned look on his face. In the better part of the last ten years, he had seen too often the ex-soldier battle the ghosts of his dreams only to wake up in this frenzied state. More than once had he been at the receiving end of a flying fist from the man, not because he was sleeping in bed with him but rather because the “lunatic” could not get away from his past.

“Hey Buddy? What do you think?” the musher asked his fateful companion, “Is it time to cross over to the other side of Rainbow Bridge?” The animal, recognizing the soft and now calm voice of the “Good Wolf”, started to wag its tail and headed in his direction. He put his head in his crotch and looked up at the man directly in the eyes with that look that said “I’ll back you all the way there, Buds.” That stare brought a smile to the man’s face but also plenty of tears to his eyes. The dog didn’t realize that the first round was destined for him. All he knew was that he was with his trusted friend and would tag along for the ride.

‘It totally amazes me that I could do this to him and that he would die just because I decided that he would.” the veteran reflected through the sobs while patting Mosqua’s head. “Isn’t that what the “Powers to Be” are doing to all these soldiers around the world? – Create an environment where they are manipulated into believing that dying for the cause is the ultimate sacrifice for your country? Yeah, there’s a lot of “pawns” out there that were suckered into supporting the “power hungry 1%ers”, that secretive hush-hush society that tells world wide Governments what chess pieces they should move. This group of the so called “Elites” does exist you know. Just google “Military Industrial Complex” and see what you find. You’ll see that the lines found here were not written here by the hand of a paranoid “headcase”. Instead, they were written by one who was burnt too many times by the system and has decided to turn his back on society as we know it. Whatever would happen out there was their problem, the man concluded. He was even too tired to even care anymore. Right now, he had but one priority on his list and that was to get rid of the “Evil Wolf” and this he would achieve once and for all.

As you would have it, there was nothing simple in this simple man’s life and if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. The stage was set. He had a roaring fire in the wood stove and the thermometer indicated that it was a balmy 42 degrees Celsius inside the cabin. After closing the door behind him, he walked to the center of the room where he undressed completely naked, making sure that his clothes were neatly folded in front of him. He sat there, facing West and in the “Samurai Warrior” tradition, he placed his weapon on top of pile of clothes and waited for the heat to work its magic. This part of the ceremony was a ritual that he was accustomed to and he knew that through the sweat he would get courage and strength.

“So why would you want to do this?” his mentor asked him. “Why would you want to give up at this stage of the game?”
“I’m really tired Leonard. I don’t know what to do anymore.” was all the “pupil” could muster as an answer.
“Did you forget the fundamentals, Gino?” this somewhat annoyed voice inside him, told him. “If so let me remind you a bit how this works. It’s like your dogs. Right now, they are dead tired simply because you’re pushing them way past their limits. In as such, you continue to ask of them and they continue to provide. Somewhere in there, their bodies don’t get a chance to properly recuperate. Therefore, they become irritable and that’s why they fight amongst each other. They do not want to co-operate and if you keep this up, they’ll just flop on the trail and say, “Hey we give up!” The only way that they’re going to function properly as a team again is if you allow them to rest up their bodies. Does that remind you of someone?” he emphasized.
The listener blushed…

“As for your overreacting to any little annoyance, did you forget the story about the sport of “Dog Fighting” in Korea?” he stressed.
All of a sudden, the musher was reminded as to what this old “Korean Vet” had once told him many years ago while sharing a coffee in his kitchen.

These dogs that were thrown into the ring where they would fight to the death, were conditioned to become that way. Like the humans, they were born innocent only to be fashioned by whatever means to become “killing machines”. Many methods were used and none of them had anything to do with tenderness. These animals were trained to be aggressive and at the end of the day, it became instinctive to attack the one in front of it as it was the basic way it was taught to survive. While the vanquished were destroyed and fed to other potential gladiators, the old “combat scarred” victors would be kept as living and breathing trophies so to be displayed by their money thirsty owners. Eventually, they would also be discarded and deemed obsolete and as a reward these “dogs of the arena” would be turned loose on an unsuspected population where they would be allowed to go out there and fend for themselves. Lonely and mistrusting, they would continue an existence of agony. It wasn’t their fault, Leonard Lanteigne had accentuated. That’s what they were trained for and they only saw humans as thing that could bring them harm. “Fear Bitters” they would be known as. Just like the soldier we were talking about at the beginning of this “blog”, they were only reacting to a threat not because it was an actual threat but simply because they were conditioned to react decisively to what was perceived as a threat.

Directing his question to his knowledgeable teacher, the man then asked, “Yeah I understand that but now, how do you deal with that dog or for the purpose, that soldier?”
“Well, how did you deal with “Rhum?” the old Malecite Native rebutted?
By now, his old trail partner was making quite the solid case, the suddenly very alert and attentive musher thought. And yes, the tall lanky red dog had come a long way since he had been adopted close to two years ago. In this instance, this sleddog had come from a world where a set of circumstances had made it that he didn’t know any better. Bottom line, he had never been socialized and could not interact with other animals. At the beginning, he was a wild and uncontrollable running machine and would attack whatever and whoever he had in his line of sight. Many of the “Mob” had been the recipients of his vicious attacks and he would only deal with the other dogs in one basic pattern. Encounter the perceived threat and bite at it so that it retreats. Gobble up what food that was put in front of him as if he had never been fed. Go back to its enclosure and guard the door by snapping at any other friendly dogs that just want to invite it outside so that he may discover this great new world out there.
The musher would have to conceive that “Rhum” had been a hard nut to crack. He could roll up his sleeves and produce several old now healed bite marks all over his arms to prove this fact. How many times after violent clashes had the musher said to the dog, “Eat this and enjoy your last meal because tomorrow, you’re being served a “lead pill”.

Destroying a dog, was one of these necessary evils that needed to be done by the true musher. Having a vicious dog on the team was something that could bring you trouble out there in the wilderness. The best example to illustrate this would be the following - You take off with a “10 dog” string and somewhere deep in the “bush”, this mean dog attacks his partner and it is a clash to the finish. First off, you end up with a bunch of dogs that really get excited and want to get into the “melée”. You have to get control over these ones first to then deal with the fighters. These bouts don’t need to be long to be serious and it doesn’t take much or too long to have one of the combatants injured, crippled or dead. When all is done and the fur has stopped flying, you might end up with two injured dogs that now can’t help pull the sled and left with only eight who now have the burden of having to carry the extra load. So for the betterment of the “pack”, it is sometimes better to permanently eliminate the source of the problem.

“Rhum” had come real close at least seven times in becoming maggot food. The last time, the musher had his head tied to the bottom of a tree, he had the barrel of the“22 gauge” stuck between his eyes, the safety was off and it was a matter of holding that deep breath and pulling the trigger. For some reason, the oxygenated air to the man’s brain had a calming effect and he thought to himself, “Hey, doesn’t he remind you of yourself when you were young, wild and crazy but with a good heart? If that old boss of yours way back then would have written you off, would you have turned out the way you did eventually?” Yeah, “Rhum” looking down at the barrel cross-eyed, sort of reminded the ex-soldier as to how turbulent his first years in the military had been. Back then, he had been given one last final chance by this crusty old Warrant Officer by the name of “Lloyd Church”. This rough and tough ex-boxer had seen the true potential in the “always in some sort of shit” young Private and had taken him under his wing. Through patience, compassion and love, he had turned this out of control wild young man into a very functional and loyal Military Policeman. The musher just then had been reminded of all the time he had invested in “Santa’s little Helper” (he does resemble Bart Simpson’s dog) and the mega strides he had made since his being adopted. “Rhum” still had a few flaws but through the same methods used by “Old Flat Nose”, he had managed to turn him around where he had became a hard-working loyal team member that would now actually go out there and socialize with his peers. After attributing that everybody is allowed a bad day, especially when you’re pushed to the “max” without allowing your body to recuperate, the dog’s life was spared once more and it had paid dividends. Stuck on the trail one night because one of his leader had pulled a shoulder stepping in a moose track, the “dogman” had taken a chance and put “Rhum” in front. There, he had accepted these responsibilities with utmost confidence. Seeing them, “JR” and him, matching each other stride for stride and in harmony, the musher was singing “Rudolph the red nosed reindeer” to the team and was giving priority to the words, “Rudolph with you’re your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh to night!” This experience would bring the point home that if you have a good heart and you are ready to help your fellowman, positive things will happen and you will surround yourself with values attributed to the “Good Wolf”.

“What about the “Evil Wolf?” the confused man asked the “Shaman”. “What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Well,” Leonard replied with this friendly smile, “he served you quite well in that previous life and if he hadn’t been within you, you might not have survived what you went through. He is an integral part of who you are and it’s a matter of knowing that if you feed him too much, he will have the strength to go out there and roam through the peaceful valley... Best let a sleeping Wolf, lie…”

By the time, he woke up, he was lying on the floor of the “Outpost” and the cold temperature in the building could only be matched by Mosqua’s cold nose. Here he was, this dark shape creeping along and discreetly sniffing the length of his master so to see if he was still alive.
“Good Morning there, Buddy!” the rested man said in reassurance. “What time is it?”
His tail wagging, the dog didn’t answer but by the way he crouched down to then snuggle in his friend’s side, you could tell that he was glad to see that the ex-military man was all right. Grabbing that adorable head in a choke hold, the musher gave him a kiss on top of the head to then say, “Well there “Big Guy”, what would you think if we were to get off this mountain and we’d head home for coffee?” The dog knew exactly what he was talking about and after straightening things around, to the truck they proceeded after closing the door. Reflecting as to what had transpired during the previous evening, the man said to himself, “I guess we’ve managed to weather another storm, Leonard. Thanks for being in my corner, there, old friend.”
The voice in his head immediately answered,
“Sometimes, what you're looking for is right there in front of your very own eyes. It's a matter of putting your feet up and reviewing the "Good Things" that happened during the previous year. One can "break trail" on his own but it is sure nice to share the burden with trusted friends...”

To be continued…

Peace on Earth to One an All and remember. Together we can make a difference! = -)

Gino

NATURE OF THE BEAST

There is truth to the old saying that goes, “When it rains, it pours…” And the month of October 2011 would go down in records as to being the worst the musher had seen in a long time. Not only was the weather cold, miserable and gloomy, his mood matched the darkness of these days perfectly…

Starting with that ATV that rolled on top of him, it seemed that he hadn’t had enough “excitement” during those first fourteen days and the events would further unravel and stack themselves, one on top of each other. He would continue to be subjected to more adrenaline rushes that would make it that he wouldn’t be able to focus enough to walk that “path of red hot coals without burning his feet”.

So anyway, on the Tuesday morning of that third week, there had been a lot of yelling and ordering about by the man to get them loaded in the “dog camper”. It seemed that they just didn’t want to co-operate. Instead, they were playing chase and couldn’t understand as to why he was so abrupt and would not allow them to horse around in the dog yard.
“What’s his problem?” Orka asked the remainder of the cheerleading squad while they were eventually traveling to the “Baisley” trailhead. “Is it his time of the month?”
All the yearlings started giggling.
“I don’t know,” Thunder continued with that certain arrogance that only she had, “but doesn’t he realize that we’re the ones that are running this show and if we want to, we can make life real miserable for him.”
“Yeah, Yeah!” most of the girls seemed to say in agreement.

For them, completing “10 mile runs” were major accomplishments and this according to what they were telling themselves, they were “superstars”. This was of course a figment of their imagination because at this illustrious stage of their careers, some of them had maybe “150” miles under their belts while others had a lousy “75”. Nonetheless, they were getting bored of traveling to and back from the “Quebec Alps” and with all this “experience”, they had developed a confidence that surpassed what you might call a “cocky attitude”. They wanted more challenges and a change of scenery and they wanted it right now.
“According to Gidget, there’s a lot more trails out there to explore.” Kameo continued.
“Uncle Oumak, do you think you could take us out on a different route, this morning?” she went on. “We’d like to see what else is out there!”
“Well,” the old gray wolf like canine answered hesitantly, “one of the things you ladies must understand is that yes I do lead the team but the musher says where we go. That’s it, that’s all.”
“But it would be so nice to go and visit something else for a change! Oh please Uncle “Mak” you handsome devil you, can we, can we?” Lightning continued, pleading to the point of begging.
Oumak was a sly “old fox” and the type of dog that didn’t need much to have his ego stroked. He was one of the only two males on this all female team and he relished all this new found attention and flirting that he was getting from the eight bitches. He had always thought of himself as being the best available stud in the kennel and was not easily accepting the fact that he was no longer strutting his stuff with the “elites” on the racing team. In his opinion, the musher had made a huge mistake when he had demoted him to the “B” Team. He was not impressed and just maybe today was the right time to prove to him that he was not a “has been”.

What the poor old guy didn’t understand was that he could no longer keep up with the faster pace that was required to stay competitive. Although an excellent leader, he didn’t have between the ears that special quality that was needed to go the extra long distances. He was the type that would be all show and all go at the beginning but someone that wouldn’t keep anything in reserve to finish the job. However, to be fair to the individual, it wasn’t entirely all his fault. He was one of those fine examples of a dog that had been pushed way beyond his physical limits when he was just a yearling. Somewhere, during those tender and critical first two years, his previous owner had raced him way too hard and way too early. As a result, he had injured his right front wrist and the nagging pain to this articulation would flare up every time he’d run further than the “25 mile” mark. So why would a person waste rations on such a lame duck, some of you real mushers might ask? The answer to that was real simple, really. The dog had been a key component and had led the “Canadian Snowhounds” across many finish lines during the three previous years. What “JR” knew, he had taught most of it to him. Also, he had one of those very special and desirable attributes that all good lead dogs must have – He kept the team to the right side of the trail. And that folks was why he was still around and leading the “Girly Girl” team. Since the start of the training season, young “Nikita” had been paired up with him and he was teaching her all the intricacies of what was required to lead a long string of dogs with complete confidence. He had done a fine job as the young apprentice had gone from being very timid to being looked at as a strong contender for leading the “A” Team.

But that was neither here or there. Today, he was in one of his moods where he would not listen to the directions given and would take the team down the path that “he” would choose and this according to his agenda.
“So you ladies want to go exploring?” he snickered. “Well, I’ll tell you what. When the time comes, follow my lead.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” Nikita asked, not too sure why but knowing that this smelled like trouble.
“Oh mind your own business, Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Speaking for all of us, I think it’s a splendid idea.” Thunder exclaimed.

The old Alpha dominant female, Vixen, who had been listening to all this had just about had enough with all this bickering so eventually piped up in frustration. Directing her comments to Orka but loud enough so that little “Peanut Head” would also get the message, she belted out,
“I hope that you and Thunder realize that it’s because of you two little sluts that we’re in this predicament. If you would have managed to keep your legs together maybe you wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. And if you wouldn’t have gotten pregnant maybe you wouldn’t have needed to be operated on! Did you ever maybe think that it’s because the man is looking after your welfare that we’re going on these short strolls? Those were serious operations you had, you know? Did you ever think that maybe he’s not pushing the envelope because he wants you to heal properly. May I remind you that it’s only been five weeks since the “vet” opened you up? Give the man a break, will you!”
“Oh simmer down, you grouchy “Old Hag”, Thunder continued, edging her on from the safety of her box, “You’re just jealous because your “JR” is paying more attention to us than he is to you.” And with that comment, the teeny-boppers again started chuckling.
Vixen was just about to add more gas to the fire when her brother interjected.
“Hey Vixen,” the “Kid” told her also really annoyed, “save your breath. You know how it is. There is no sense in turning blue in the face trying to tell them how it’s done. They’re destined to find out the hard way…”
With that comment, “Vixy” swallowed her next words and just gave a low tone growl. After all, he was right. They knew it all and didn’t want to listen so why waste spit on them. For now, she would have to endure being humiliated as her and her brother had no choice in accompanying these “Air Heads”. The musher needed dogs with experience so to teach some of the “ropes” to the young ones and they had drawn the short straws. So instead of enjoying a peaceful quiet ride, they would have to endure this heckling.

It had taken more time than usual but he had finally managed to string up the ten dogs. He couldn’t understand why they were so full of piss and vinegar but suggested to himself that it probably had something to do with the new “meat diet” and the fact that they were getting in good shape. Oumak was putting on quite the show out there in front, jumping up and down and banging in his harness. Usually, when the musher would tell him to “sit and be a good boy”, he would calm down and not move but today he was just going crazy, raring to go. The young “shit disturbers” were mimicking him and cheering him on with their squeaky high pitch barks. During all this time, poor young Nikita was trying her best to hold the line tight because “Gino” had told her so. Trying her best, at 43 lbs, she was no match for the gray leader and he was pulling her by the neckline, tossing her around like a rag doll. This did not sit well with the “Boss” as having a calm team before starting out on a run was something that he considered quite useful. Not only did the dogs conserve energy, one stood a better chance of not being left behind in case they got loose. This was something that young dogs needed to learn but there was no way he would be able to get them to stand still on this occasion. So he decided to forget this part of the lesson, jumped on the training rig and pulled the quick release on the snub-line. Usually, his experienced team would have waited for the commands, “Ready” then “Uptrail” but the cheerleaders were off and running way before anything could be said.
“Look at them go!” he said almost amazed, seeing all those little “tight asses” galloping full out. “There is no way they can keep this speed up for any length of time.” He had been holding them back to a trotting speed for the better part of the last month so allowed them to have their moment of controlled chaos. “OK Girls, you want to go for it? Let’s see what you’ve got under the hood!” And with that, he whistled, eased off on the brakes and let them run freely.
“Finally,” the “Kid” said to his wheel partner “Vixen”, “we’re going to get to stretch our legs.” And with that they joined in and put the pedal to the metal.
The “Girly Girl” team was surpassing the musher’s expectation and he couldn’t understand where such “petite filles” were getting so much power. Surely they would slow down on that first incline two miles out but they didn’t. They just kept pulling and keeping the speed up. So he decided to see how far they would go before they ran out of steam. There was a lesson to be learnt in there somewhere and there was no way they could keep it up. Besides the run to the “Quebec Alps” was only 10 miles long.

When the team got to the “three mile” junction, it was critical that it went straight ahead. Not only did that left turn take you to a series of long and distant trails, a “RECCE” of the area needed to be done every autumn so to ensure that there were no obstacles obstructing the trail systems. So far, this hadn’t been done and as you would have it, Oumak had it in his thick skull that was where we would be headed that day.
“On By!” the dogman shouted to his two leaders, “On By!”
Young Nikita recognized this command and tried to lead the team in a forward direction but good old “Mak” would not listen and was trying to turn right.
Braking the motorless ATV to a complete stop, the musher yelled at him, “Non “Mak”, I said “On By!”
Him pulling hard to go right and Nikita putting extreme efforts trying to proceed in the correct direction, she was to lose this “tug-of-war” when the cheerleaders put their shoulders to the rope. Shout, brake, curse all you want, there was no stopping them now. They had managed to go where they wanted and were on their way to explore new frontiers.
“Well,” the musher said to himself, “I’ll turn at the trapper’s camp and just do a short “8 mile run.”
That’s what he thought but the team had other ideas. They climbed the next hill at break neck speed and instead of listening to the “Gee” command so to turn right and then loop around, they just whizzed on by the building. Across that narrow makeshift bridge they flew without even realizing that one of them could have caught a leg in a crack between the logs and might have broken it.
“Oh I didn’t like that.” he reflected while aiming and braking the rig across it till its four wheels were locked, “Those spaces between those logs can be mighty treacherous.”
By now, some of you might think that the dogs were out of control and I would almost have to agree with you. But what can you do? These things are known to occur especially with a young team that doesn’t understand what “Stay” means. When one ventures out with a light motorless ATV, two things are a “must”. First, the “four wheeler” must have not good but excellent brakes and it is important that you travel with a team that will respond to your commands. It is the only way that one should risk using such a contraption. On this day, the musher was being reminded of this. Holding on to dear life, he was just going along for the ride and was hoping that they would tire out eventually and this without incident.

They were coming up to a “Y” junction and it was imperative that the team turn left. The other direction offered a series of possible dangers, including a large beaver pond that these industrious animals would build across the road every year. Usually, the trapper and his son would dismantle the dam every late fall but the beavers would just consider this effort as more overtime challenges to keep the water levels high. The dogsledders of the area were aware of this and would avoid this particular stretch of trail till late in the winter when it was frozen solid and safe to cross.
“Niki, Mak, Haw, Haw Trail!” the “Boss” shouted.
Niki did want to go left and was trying to proceed in that direction but Oumak was dragging her to that “Gee” trail, a trail that he remembered so well from before. He guided the team past that sharp right hand corner and was headed towards potential disaster. Along the way, it was clear that nobody had been in this area lately as there were fallen trees at three different places. These didn’t really offer challenges to the team as the tree trunks were small and were something that they could simply plow through and jump over. As they tackled each obstacle, it was pleasant to see that the young girls were getting accustomed to wearing that harness on their back and were enjoying themselves.
“They’re actually working as a dog team.” the driver thought to himself, starting to relax but being led into a false sense of security. “They’re actually really showing real potential.” What was really happening is that they were catching their second breath and once they reached a certain descending part of the trail, it was as if they had passed the word around and here they were at “full speed ahead” again. The musher knew better than to let them run full blast downhill and slowed them to a comfortable speed that would minimize the possibility of shoulder injuries. Eventually coming around a long left bend and coming face to face with this monster of a water hazard, he was astonished by the dimensions of this natural wonder.
“Holly Shit, look at it!” he exclaimed out loud.
Yup, he was surprised to see the shear magnitude of this beaver pond. With all that exaggerated amount of rain the region had had over the last six months, the surface area was at least five times its normal size. Gazing up at the sky and laughing to himself, he wondered if they could see it from the International Space Station.
“Probably not,” he smiled, “but still…”
Needing to immediately immobilize them, he commanded his team. “Stay you guys, Stay!”
Both leaders did slow down to a crawl but because of the slippery icy grass, the ATV wouldn’t adhere properly to the surface and the “Girly Girls” kept pulling it closer and closer to the edge of the pond.
Almost in desperation, he called, “For fuck’s sakes, you girls, STAY!”
It was useless. They would just not listen and just wanted to go and play in the beautiful clear water.
Not being able to stop the team in order to turn them around, he was losing this battle. They kept creeping forward and by now, the front six dogs were in knee deep water and they were committed to fording the beaver pond. Getting himself mentally prepared to take a cold bath, the man didn’t say a thing and let the dogs test the water for themselves. The further they went, the deeper it got. Not even in the middle of it, the small yearlings soon found out that the water was way over their heads and this was not fun anymore. Oumak, not capable of walking on the bottom, started rearing himself on his hind legs and started trashing about not really knowing how to get out of this mess. He suddenly stopped right in the middle of the “lake” bunching the team all together with him to the point where dogs were stepping on top of dogs so to keep breathing. An immediate panic spread amongst the young females and all of a sudden, it was to be a desperate fight for survival. Add to that a tangled mess of necklines and tuglines and you had a serious situation where dogs would die.

There was not a moment to spare so the musher got off the rig to render assistance to the submerged animals. As soon as the ATV was released of its rider, with its huge balloon tires, it started to float. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. With water way past his waist, he pushed the buoyant rig backwards so to get the gangline tight. This done, he turned around and sure as hell, there she was, swimming. You see, she was used to deep water because back at the lodges, at their private beach, she would spend hours accompanying Mosqua when he’d swim in the river to fetch a stick. Here in her element,here she was, as cool as a cucumber, dog paddling. She wasn’t going anywhere because of the tangled gaggle behind her but she was staying on top, threading water.
“Nikita, Uptrail Girl, Uptrail!” he said after quickly managing to get some sort of straight extended line, “Uptrail!”
With her pulling, Oumak and the remainder of the team now facing in a general direction and the musher holding the ATV back, heads started bobbing up from the “Abyss”. Coughing and gasping for air, all of them were accounted for except for little “Thunder”. You could see her small white figure struggling with all her might, under water with the gangline somehow wrapped around her neck. Try and try again, she just couldn’t squirm her way out to reach the surface.

An immediate jolt of “Action Jackson” super juice spread right through the ex-military man and he rushed to the side of his rambunctious but loveable little “Peanut Head”. With both arms, he grabbed the gangline on both sides of the choking dog and pulled them together so to release some pressure around its neck. In one single same motion, he lifted the rope above water so that “Thunder” could get a chance to breathe. Gagging and spitting volumes of liquids from out of her mouth, it was time that she got oxygen to her brain. Looking at how the noose was fashioned, he figured that if he could make the loop bigger, she could get out. He pulled the two sides even closer together but she wasn’t getting the right idea. She needed to back out of it but all she wanted to do was go forward and head to shore. Thinking fast, he gambled and let go of the gangline. With his left hand, he grabbed the top of the loop and held it tight. With his right one, he pulled the dog by the tail backwards and released her from that strangle hold. Still in that overwhelming feeling of terror, she was trying desperately to climb on top of her sister’s head and in the process, was submerging her. The man, seeing that this provided more potential danger, reached under Thunder’s belly and moved her away so not to harm Lightning.
“Easy there, Girl! Easy!” he repeated this on more than one occasion. Recognizing his voice, suddenly she was relaxing in his hand with a look on her face that said, “Please, please don’t let me drown.”
“Don’t you worry about that, you “Peanut Head”, you. Everything is going to be all right.” With that he started following the forward momentum that the swimming team was providing. Looking at the front of the line, here was Nikita leading the parade and Oumak really happy that she was. This period of weightlessness made it that she was able to drag the stubborn old mule in the direction that she wanted as here the size of the dog didn’t necessarily matter.
“Good Girl, Nikita! he encouraged her, “Good Girl!”
Still cupping little “Peanut Head” in his hand, she had caught on that to get to the other side, she needed to swim and by “George”, there she was doing it, helping the other team members.
The musher, with his soaked and wet to the neck insulated overalls, was being a hindrance more than anything else. He couldn’t move fast enough through the water so allowed the team to swim the width of the pond on their own. He let them pull the ATV past him at which point he latched on to the rear axle with his right hand. Half gliding behind it and half “scissor kicking” with his legs, the entire gang managed to traverse more than two hundred feet before they again found solid ground under their paws. Glad that they had reached the shore, they stopped and “shook it off”. Getting up after crawling on his “four” for a while, the exhausted man reached to where the “snowhooks” were on the rig and planted them firmly into the mud.
“Stay, you Guys! Stay!”

For some strange reason, there was a renewed sense of collaboration. None of them hesitated to co-operate and he walked up the line towards the leaders, inspecting the “Troopies” from head to toe, making sure that nobody was hurt while readjusting some neck and tug lines. When he reached the front however, he was still engulfed with this warrior entity and everything it encompassed. He couldn’t help it. This persona would invade him every single time that he faced an imminent threat and this in whatever form it appeared. In the past in that military forum, this had proved to be an indispensable and welcomed asset as it had more than saved his bacon and this on numerous occasions. However, when these adrenaline filled episodes would enter and spread throughout his body, not only did he not perceive danger, he would become a liability to himself as he would try to eliminate the menace and this at all cost. This side of him was not accepted as a way of resolving things on “civvy street”. Therefore civilized society didn’t understand and were somewhat scared of these “robots” that military systems produced and let’s face it, there was cause for concern. They were hard to deal with as there were no switch to turn them on and off at will. The man was aware of this dark side of his personality so had chosen to basically retreat to the quietness of the backcountry. In this manner, he would stand a better chance at avoiding confrontational situations. So with some of the rage still in his heart, the initial thing he really felt like doing was to close his fist and drive it real hard in the side of Oumak’s head. However, the wiser side of him would prevail and he refrained from doing so.
“There was no sense in this,” the “Good” wolf said to his “Evil” twin, “as canines live the moment and he would probably not understand what was happening. After all, didn’t he just finish swimming across the "English Channel" to save the day?”
When the ex-soldier did reach him, the dog’s ears were flopped down, his tail was between its legs as if he was ready and expecting some sort of punishment. Looking down at him, the musher figured that his old trail partner had had enough for one day so gently patted him on the head. “Oumak, Oumak, Oumak! When will you ever learn?”
Sensing that things might be good between them, his old friend started moaning like only “Oumak” can and he started nibbling at the man’s hand in a sign of affection.
“It’s OK, Old Buddy! Shit happens! Now do you think that maybe we could go home without arguing as to who runs things in this town?” Eyeing all the wet dogs, there seemed to be a consensus that they all had had enough excitement for the day. Figuring that it was just about that time, the tired old serviceman went back and hoped on the ATV.
“All right, Boys and Girls, let’s go home!” he said calmly, “Ready? Uptrail!”

They moved out slowly and under control but the trip was not going to be too pleasant. The dogs were tired and their harnesses were becoming stiff from the cold and causing armpit rubs. Meanwhile, the musher was running besides the training buggy but regardless, he wasn’t generating enough heat to keep his clothes from hardening as hard as a rock.
Panting as he went along, he could hear once again the pounding of his heart just behind his eardrums. “Oh Great!” he reflected. “Just what I needed, another sleepless night.” He knew exactly what would transpire in the next couple of days but what could you do? It was the nature of the beast and something he had to live with…

To be continued…

THE "EAR" STORY

It was the middle of November and the monsoon season was still going strong. The musher had seven pairs of boots lined up, drying by the wood stove and had gotten used to wearing mud impregnated pants. The way he saw things, there was no sense in washing his clothes every day as wherever they traveled, the ground was soaked beyond absorbing any more rain. So, here he was by a roaring fire in the stove in the “Bunkhouse”, trying to get the chill out of his arthritic riddled bones…

After putting the dogs through their paces for the last two months, it was time to shuffle the line-ups a bit. He would need to pick out the racing prospects, bump up the daily mileages way past the “20 mile” mark and push them beyond their comfort zones. At the beginning of this training season, he had grandiose plans of running the three major “100 milers” but after consulting the programs for those races, he came to realize that where in the past, these events were “10 dog” strings, the rules had been changed and the organizers would now allow a standardized “12 dog” team to participate. This to the musher made a lot of sense as it gave the participants a chance to better prepare for the East Coast’s main event, the CAN-AM 250, in Fort-Kent.

This was fine and dandy but it would also throw a curve ball down his way and into his own kennel. Out of the twenty-three dogs on hand, he did not have a dedicated and full compliment for such a racing team. At one end, he had at least five semi-retired “easy go lucky, let’s smell the roses and fart as we go along old-timers” and at the other end, he had all those small almost tiny “’tight ass cheerleaders”. While the old “Viagra” clan still had it in the back of their mind that they could mix it up with the best, the young “chicks” and of course “Vince” the giant, were a bunch of “green horns” that had no track record whatsoever. These two factors were something that he needed to seriously consider as these mid-distance events were no cake walks.

Going down the list of contenders, he started to realize that the picking might be slim to fill the roster needed for a “12” dog team. The last sixty days of training had not gone according to plans. They were way behind in accumulated mileage and with all the different events that happened during that period, the “Canadian Snowhounds” might be in what you might call the “Hurt Locker”. It wasn’t necessarily their fault but life had a way of putting forward certain challenges and October had provided him many of them. Sitting there, adding and subtracting names of dogs, he was scratching his head, wondering why he bothered with this madness. After complete analysis of the situation, he had come to a plausible conclusion. It had not been an “easy going” throughout the last month and the obstacles had been numerous. He had gone through “Hell Week” times five and if this wasn’t bad enough, “JR” aka “Don Juan” had managed to break out of his enclosure to then eat through the wooden grill at “Orka’s” sleeping quarters. Of course with this mission completed, they escaped and gallivanted throughout the entire night. Not only did the smooth talker have his ways with the young virgin, they eventually met up with a skunk who could not be convinced in having a threesome so they got sprayed “big time”. After spending a few hours washing the two love birds, it was decided that the “Great Houdini” would be allowed to sleep in the house. This was a last resource solution as he needed to be kept under immediate adult supervision. Let’s face it! “JR” had strong hormones and an “iron will” to match and the musher could not stop him from trying to get that “piece of tail”. In the past, all imaginable tricks of the trade had been tried but nothing would curb that wild will to breed. Keeping him in the house seemed to be the only solution but this was a figment of the man’s imagination. “JR” was only marking time and being cute while waiting for the occasion to get back to his harem. And as you would have it, it happened. Maybe two days later, he was no longer at the musher’s side and hearing all the commotion coming from the “Howl-A-Day Inn”, it was obvious that something was up. When the man got to the building, it was too late. The “Stud” had managed to climb a seven foot wall, crawl through a seven inch space up by the ceiling and copulate with another young bitch. Looking at “Thunder” with that crossed eyed look on her face, back to back and stuck there with her soother, there would not be much more that could be done other than phone the veterinarian and have the two bred females spayed. Not that he was being prejudice but he needed to be responsible and additional mouths to feed were not in the cards at this time (As a side note, when they were eventually operated on, not only would they miss out on the training but between the two of them, “Orka” and “Thunder” were carrying thirteen puppies…)

“Hell Week” had also brought other headaches. Since castrating a bunch of males that previous summer, there was a new chemistry in the barn. Where the aggressive males had now calmed down, the other more subdued dogs had figured they’d climb up the hierarchy ladder. “Leonard” who had been the most reserved one of the bunch was suddenly walking around with this “ridge back” of raised hair, strutting along and shoulder checking any contenders. For some reason, he started bullying young “Vince” and after a while, the “Friendly Giant” got tired of this and would take a stance. The fight, although short, was most serious and “Leonard” was soon to realize that with all that hard training, the baby fat that “Vince” once carried during his teens had now been replaced by bulging muscles. The giant was a powerhouse compared to him and poor “Leonard” would remember this episode for as long as he lived as he would now be sporting a real ugly reminder. In their encounter, “Vince” had managed to take a chomp on his opponent’s head. When all was done and over with, “Leonard” was in real pain and was missing half his right ear.

It’s amazing how certain incidents will cause certain undesired past events to re-surface and send a “PTSD head case” into a frenzy. Seeing that poor dog yelp in pain, shaking his head and splattering blood all over the place was to give this ex-soldier an unwanted blast of adrenaline that rushed instantly to his head. Unwillingly, he was transported back in time to an incident that had happened way back then in that previous life of his.

Although totally different in nature, the missing piece of ear had brought back forgotten souvenirs, memories that he had long ago forgotten about. It was a winter exercise in Wainwright, Alberta, called “Rapier Thrust” and the year was 1982. There he was, a pimple-faced Military Policeman employed with the 2nd Battalion of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, in the “Junior Ranks Club”, his heart pounding through his eardrums ready to battle a fellow soldier, the infamous “Billy Cogle”. He had no willingness to take on this man as these two individuals had previously clashed on numerous occasions and to say the least, “Billy” enjoyed inflicting pain as well as receiving it. The young MP had tried on several earlier occasions to remove the individual from a drinking establishment without violence but this had always ended up as being a useless exercise. “Billy” was the type of guy that found pleasure in resisting arrest and when he was in one of his drunken stupor, he always had an attitude where he would not go down without a fight. Many of these altercations had occurred and both parties had the now mended but broken bones to attest to this. The last time they had fought, the young Corporal had managed to get the upper hand and had literally pounded his fist at Cogle’s forehead for at least 25 times. This masochist would not fall down nor would he abandon. Here he was, bleeding like a pig, laughing it off and asking for more. Shaking his head almost in discouragement, the arresting officer stopped hitting the man as he could not comprehend as to why this man could not be knocked out. It was insane the beating he had put on him and here he was still standing. So out of pity, he decided that enough was enough and chose to use a different approach.
“Hey Billy,” he had told his tenacious opponent, “I don’t know about you but I think that I’ve had enough. What would you say if we’d call it a night?” For some reason, on that evening, that’s all that had been needed to finally settle the matter.

But that particular night at the Wainwright Junior Ranks Club, this was to be a different can of worms. The boys had just come out of the field after a hard sub-zero week of grunt work. They needed to vent and there was some heavy duty celebrating going on. Dancing on the tables, drinking beer out of “mukluks” and throwing empty cans at each other, it was a party and it was hardcore “Army” style. So that evening, when he received the call from the bartender, Roussel knew what was to be expected. These infantry types were known to throw a punch or two and the “Boyz” from 2 PPCLI could back the reputation of being the best of what the Canadian military system could muster. He had been posted with this unit as a replacement to another policeman who had been put in the hospital so many times that he couldn’t handle the job anymore and would puke every time he had to come on duty. That had been two years ago and during that period, the newcomer had been put through the “ringer” more than he cared to remember. Dealing with individuals with nicknames like, “Grizzly Adam”, “King Kong Kingshott”, “Crazy Man Andrews” and last but not least, “No Neck Rowe”, who by the way were all specimen that stood taller than six feet at an average of 240 lbs, he had had his shares of fights with them and this on more than a few occasions. He had won some but also had lost a few but at the end of the day, the troops had accepted him as one of their own and had some sort of respect for him. So when he walked into the “Bar”, hands in his pockets, the first thing he decided to do was to stay close to the door and take time to observe. All the “animals” were in the zoo and it was best to try and defuse the situation in an amiable way.
“Hey guys,” Andrews yelled over the noise, “Gino, the Meathead is here!”
“Hello Gino!” a bunch of them replied as they threw a volley of beer cans in his direction. “How the hell are you?”
There wasn’t much to answer to this other than “Fine” so that’s what he said. To better try and get control of things, the young MP whistled to get their attention and it somewhat worked.
“OK Guys! Party’s over! The Bar’s closed and it’s time to go to bed!”
He had almost convinced them that it was a good idea till “Billy” got up, grabbed a wooden chair and pitched it across at the bottles behind the bar. “Fuck that shit!” he said, “We’ll leave when we feel like it!”
The crowd regained momentum and you could feel the excited tension fill the air. It had been a while since these two gladiators had squared off and “Billy” felt like putting on a show.
“Ah come on Billy, I really don’t feel like scrapping tonight!” was all Roussel could blur out. “Be reasonable and I’ll take you to the shacks!”
He might have been swayed to do just that but his soldier friends were antagonizing him and chanting “Go Billy, Go! Go Billy, Go!” Like a Maestro, his arms in the air as if he was directing the orchestra, he demanded that they scream louder and they did. Figuring that the decibel level was high enough, standing by the bar, he ripped his combat shirt right off his own back. To the cheering crowd, he threw it behind the bar and invited his reluctant rival to come out and “Tango”.

There was no way out of this one and the young MP would have to accept the challenge or at least he would have to lead Cogle into believing that he would fight him.
“Oh Billy”, he mocked him, “Put your shirt back on! You smell and you’re going to find it mighty cold when I drag you outside by your feet!”
This seemed to stir the pot as insults started flying back in his direction.
“Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” What are the boys going to say when I’m wiping the floor with your unconscious frame?”
This did it. His fuse was lit and there was no turning back.
Putting his hand up, Roussel continued, “Hold on for a second there, Billy Boy! Let me take my parka off. You want this to be fair don’t you?” To this he agreed and allowed his “next meal” to peal that bulky piece of outer clothing.
“OK Billy, I think I’m ready now.” the enforcer of the law said. “Let’s get at her!”
With that he motioned the drunken fool to come forward. It had the desired effect and “Billy” was stunned and somewhat hesitant to make the first move. So the MP did. He walked towards him and invaded his space.
“One way or the other Billy, you’re leaving this place.” he spoke to him most seriously.
There was more hesitation but this was interrupted by some “yahoo” who yelled, “What’s it going to be Billy? Are you going to kiss him or what?”
That did it. He lunged forward and started to swing.
The dancing partner knew better than to take him on fist to fist, toe to toe so evaded his right hook, spun him around and from the back put a choke hold on him. The intention was to put him to sleep but the maneuver didn’t exactly work according to plans and instead of having a good tight noose on the individual’s throat, Billy Cogle had managed to bite into the MP’s left forearm. The more he tried to choke him, the more the soldier was biting hard into that arm muscle. He was in pain and told him so, “Billy, let go buddy! That fucking hurts!” He wouldn’t and at one point he started growling like a mad dog.
Talking through the pain, Roussel told him again, “Billy, for the last time, give it up!” There was no reasoning with the man. He just wouldn’t let go of that piece of flesh. So seeing that available right ear, right there, in front of his mouth, he decided to play the same game and went for it, bite for bite.
It didn’t take long for the soon to be arrestee, to start yelling in excruciating pain. He could really feel it and while trying to escape “Jaws”, he tried to pull his head away but this resulted in serious consequences. Roussel had a good bite on it and it ripped apart, leaving him with a piece of ear in his mouth. Still holding him in a now well re-adjusted choke hold, he could taste that copper flavored liquid. Knowing that it was blood, he decided to capitalize on the situation and rubbed his face in it so that it would be smeared all over his own face. It was all theatrics of course but when Cogle fell to his knees holding the right side of his head in agony, foaming red and white stuff at the mouth, the man pretended to be completely delirious. He spat the piece of ear on the bar where it bounced a few times, turned to the crowd and said, “Anybody else want a piece of me?”
For some reason, the place had gone totally silent and this time when he told them that the “Bar” was closed, they all co-operated and went home. As for poor “Billy”, he eventually got up and the role of the “Big Brother” would now have to be played. The “not so crazy after all” Corporal put his parka back on and took him to the hospital for some needed medical attention.
A few days later, there would be everlasting peace in the valley whenever Cpl Roussel was on duty. The rumor had spread around like wildfire within the unit lines that it wasn’t good to screw around with the baby “Watchdog” as he had rabies. As for “Billy”, as strange as it might sound, he became a real good friend, one that would always have his back and this for as long as the two individuals worked with the “Patricias”…

So by now, you would think that there would have been enough excitement but this “Leonard losing an ear” saga would only bring us to maybe the middle of October. There was to be a couple more “Adrenaline” filled moments but I would suggest that we’ll save those for later on! = - )

To be continued…

BAISLEY STARS?

On that bright sunny early November morning, there wasn’t much noise coming out of the “Dog Camper”. They were coming back from a “20 mile” run and at this early stage of the season and this according to “Vixen”, the “Boss” had pushed the envelope a bit too much.
“What the hell was that all about?” she busted out loud, trying to relieve the cramps from her hindquarters. Having limited success and wondering if she was the only one that felt the burn in her legs, she asked her brother, “What about you, “Kid”, are you OK?”

As if he wasn’t there, the bruiser stayed silent in the confines of his box. Of course he was all right and why not? They had gone through these drills on more than one occasion throughout their running careers and on this particular run, he had enjoyed himself tremendously as they had discovered and traveled through new and most beautiful countryside.

Right now, however, that’s not what was on his mind. He just couldn’t understand what was going on. His training partner for the last month, young “Kameo”, had blown the doors right off him during this outing. He just couldn’t believe that such a small package could pack such a punch and for such a distance. Put simply, he was ashamed that he had been outdone by this featherweight.

He wasn’t the only one to be impressed. The musher had also taken notice of the performance of the three young dogs on the string. But and this was the most important part, he was relieved that the team had made it back to the truck safe and sound. Let’s be serious here. He had taken off with the oldest and youngest of the kennel and while the “Viagra” clan had covered such distances in previous seasons, the yearlings were not used to being on the trail for such a duration. It’s not that he had wanted to take them on such a long run and it had just happened because he didn’t have any choice in the matter. At a most critical intersection along the way and this in the name of progress (yeah they’re pushing a four lane highway through there), the trail had been invaded by a bunch of lumberjacks and their heavy equipment. Where normally, they would have needed the surface of a “Wal-Mart” parking lot to operate safely, these guys had managed to squeeze their machinery in a space that might allocate at best, twenty vehicles. To make matters worse, with the skidders, they had pulled hardwood tree lengths all alongside this road so to process through a “Slasher”. Now here was a “10 dog” team, stopped and facing this monster of a machine. Quite impressive with its rotating 60 inch sawblade while flexing its extendable arm and grapple, it was straddled across the roadway, digesting logs into “8 foot” lengths and spewing sawdust all over the place. This was fine and dandy but it was also obstructing the right of way to a public thoroughfare to any passer-by let alone the dog team. Checking the situation thoroughly, it was obvious that there would be no possibility of turning around and the only other alternative was to push on forward through the obstacle course.

He just had to look at the musher’s face to realize that right now was not a good time to argue as to who might be at fault. His equipment was scaring some of the dogs and the driver of the training rig was struggling to hold them in place.
“JR”, the ex-military man belted out louder than and burying the sound of the diesel engine, “stay and hold that fucking line!!!”

Without the slightest hesitation, the seasoned leader did what he was told. He trusted the man wholeheartedly so stood fast right there and then and kept her tight. While he was doing this, little “Summer”, scared shitless, was trying to wiggle her way out of her harness to get away from that huge metallic beast. “JR” turned his head, and with a sympathetic look that said it all to her, he communicated, “It’s OK, Girl! It’s OK!” She didn’t know what to make of the situation but seeing that everybody else around her was cool with this, she hesitantly settled down but with her tail way deep between her shaking legs.

Now having the team under control and pointing to the operator, the musher made a sign with his hand across his own throat. The man in the cab didn’t know if it meant “I’m going to slice your throat, you bastard!” or “Kill the engine!” However, the way the man was glaring at him, he knew he needed to do something quick so chose to first test out the least harmful option so stopped the machine. It took a while for the sawblade to finish spinning but it gave the musher time to plan an escape route. There was only one solution so he called it, “JR, Uptrail.”

It was going to be a tight squeeze but he had no choice. He would have to drive the team under the raised bed of the “Slasher”. It could be done but he would have to guide his lead dogs. The problem was not with his main leader but with his partner and apprentice. At two years old, “Nikita” had showed all the potential in the world to be a “Class One” leader. However, this was no ordinary situation and not something that you would see in a “Mushing 101” textbook. So, the driver called her name, got her attention and talked her through the process. “Easy Niki”, he said calmly, “Easy!” “Good Girl,” he said to her, satisfied with what he was seeing. Her and “JR” were actually leading the team out of that mess and were responding to the commands. “On by Guys! On by!” he continued. Still they were paying attention to his voice. Lying flat on the motorless ATV, the musher managed to hold on to the brakes while scrapping his back on the huge metal “H” beams under the “Slasher”. Finally clearing that obstacle, he stopped the team. “Good Job you guys!!!” he called out to his dogs, “Good Job!!!” Relieved that they had passed the first test with flying colors, he looked around him so to see what would be his best way out. On his right, the four lane highway - that was impossible to cross with a dog team. In front, five workers with chainsaws chopping away at trees and producing firewood – There was barely any room for them to work, never mind turning a gangline with ten dogs around. So, the logical place to go was up this hill on the left. It was, yes, the logical “out route” but with all that rain during October and the cold in November, this road was a sheer surface of ice and at a very steep incline. This, now the musher had figured out, was the reason why the loggers weren’t at their usual place. They couldn’t get up there. Yeah, OK but the dog team could not stay in the middle of that log yard all day so a snap decision needed to be made. “JR! Niki! Haw, Haw Trail!” Banging in their harnesses, they turned left and led the rest of the crew towards this next challenge. To see all the dogs with their ears flopped backwards and concentrating on not loosing their footing was an impressive sight. All the workers had stopped doing what they were doing and it was so quiet that you could hear the dogs’ nails scratching on the ice. “The guy’s crazy”, one of men said to his co-worker. “There is no way that they’re going to make it up there!”

The dogman was listening to this single conversation over the dead silence of the forest but was not worried about this too much. He had gotten off and was helping the dogs get up the mountain. While they were pulling, he was providing very limited pushing as it was real slippery and the stones protruding through the ice surface where he could secure a good footing were far in between. Nonetheless, they were making relatively good progress and for some off the wall reason, the man laboring and pushing on the handlebars was relishing this misery. The sharp and straight cliff on the left side and the deep ravine on the other reminded him of an expedition way back then where he had climbed a glacier on the north face of the “Shilthorn”, in Switzerland.
“The only difference,” he thought to himself almost laughing out loud, “was that over there, we were at above 2000 meters and we had cleats on our boots.” “Oh yeah,” he added now talking to himself, “you didn’t have ten dogs in tow.”

Now this constituted another serious problem. It was fine to climb to the top of “Mount Pimple” but there was no way in hell that he could come back down this way safely. Just sit down and imagine ten dogs slip sliding away downhill, in a mangled cluster, with an out of control “4 wheeler” strapped to their ass. Now envision, the log yard as a bowling alley and pins flying all over the place. Yeah, not too pretty of a picture, I would imagine. No, another way would have to be found so to get back to the truck in one piece. Within the span of 60 seconds, many scenarios were analyzed by the musher’s brain but none of them offered a viable solution. Then suddenly, he remembered a trail that he had surveyed a few years back that might have real potential. It would be taking the long way home but it would mean a less treacherous trek.
“What about the yearlings?” he asked himself. “Will they be capable of enduring the distance?”
“Now what about if you can’t find the right trail and you get lost? Are you ready to spend the day out there?”
So many questions and so many unknowns that needed to be dealt with. The turn-off was just around the corner and he had to make a choice soon. Then, unexpectedly this voice joined in this conversation within his mind.
“Trust the dogs.” his mentor Leonard Lanteigne whispered, “Trust the dogs.” It had been a while since the ghost of that old friend had come to visit and to acknowledge this, the dogman simply smiled to himself and said, “Hey Leonard, how’s it going?”

Coming back to the realities of this trip, he called it. “JR, Niki, Gee, Gee Trail.” Without missing a beat, they turned right at the “Y” junction and off they were gone, to explore uncharted territories. What had started as a disaster of a run was to soon turn into a most enjoyable journey. First, the dogs were working double time, excited at the prospect of discovering new smells. Down the next valley, they met up with two Bull Moose that had survived the hunting season, peacefully bobbing their heads under water and feeding on the plants at the bottom of a beaver pond. Up the next ridge and this to the musher’s great surprise, he met up with his old friends, the “Bald Eagle family, the three same birds that had been uprooted the year before when the industry had clear cut their nesting area across the river. Seeing them sailing about in the uplifting thermals maybe one hundred feet above the line of dogs, made of this reunion a real happy moment for this man. He had gone up and down the Madawaska River all throughout the previous summer in search of these birds of prey but they had been nowhere to be found. Along the way, he saw fit to get off the ATV and run so to help out with the carrying of the load. Huffing and puffing, trying to keep up with the pace was nearly impossible and this exercise was to truly suggest as to who was the weakest member of the team. “Conclusion,” he reflected, “it’s not one of the little girls in front.” Miles after miles, intersections after intersections, they pushed on. They were now deep in Quebec territory so to kill time and be in complete harmony with “Bill 101”, he started speaking to his dogs in French. “En avant, les pitous! En avant!” “Bon chiens, les copains! Bon chiens!” “Tout Droit, tout droit!” The dogs didn’t have a clue as to what he was saying but it seemed to amuse him, so they just zoned him out. All this enjoyment was soon to come to a closure as they made their way to where the Quebec side of the “four lane highway” construction site was at. “Yup,” the musher pondered, looking again at another huge clear cut patch with its millions of dollars of equipment, spread all over far and wide, “This would have been quite the training place if this project wasn’t here. But I guess that’s progress…” They eventually connected to the bicycle path and for the next seven kilometers, he let the dogs run at their own rhythm. The “old guard” was trotting along and amazingly, the yearlings didn’t seem to tire out. “Yeah, the little ones did pass the initial test.” he realized. “They actually completed their first “20 mile” outing and that for such a young bunch was quite the achievement. They had showed him that they could actually be contenders. Let’s face it – Any “couch potato” out there could run five and even ten miles at the time but it took guts, determination and a special will to go out there and do the longer distances. What is it that “Leonard” used to say? Oh yeah! “You will know that you have good distance dogs when you get back to the truck after twenty miles and they still have their “flags” up” and they’re winking at you with that third eye.”

Not only did they finish the run all happy but eventually on the way back to the lodges, they were playfully yapping at each other. Stopped and waiting to turn left because of oncoming traffic, the musher had to giggle to himself seeing the look on the faces of some of the people because of all the barking coming from the trailer. What they considered awful sounding noises, he simply loved it as it was music to his ears.

And in their own little “Dog Universe”, the young ones had cause for celebration as this to them, was a major accomplishment. “Vince” had instigated all this chanting only to be joined by “Summer”, “Kameo” and “Nikita”. Here they were all together now, singing at the top of their lungs, over and over,
“We are, we are! We are the Baisley Stars!”
Continuously, without stopping they went on repeating these lyrics. Suddenly, tired of hearing this quasi-nonsense, the “Kid” broke his long silence and piped out,
“Jeez,” he said almost in desperation, “and to top it all, now we’re stuck with a bunch of tight ass cheerleaders in the barn! What’s this world coming to?” With a smirk on his face and shaking his head, he curled into a tight ball and put his front paws over his ears to try and deafen the racket. It was somewhat working but he still could hear “Kameo” teasing him,
“Oh Uncle Kid! You’re a poor sport but we love you anyway…”
At this, he growled pretending to be upset but deep inside, he knew better. These puppies were managing to find a soft spot in his heart because according to this “Bruiser”, they had spunk…

To be continued…

THE BAISLEY MOB

So, when we got back from that run, I was satisfied as to how things had transpired. It had only been a short flat three miler but the “snot noses” had finally grasped what was expected of them. They had kept their tug lines tight for most of the way and amazingly enough had found a zone of comfort and enjoyment in doing this stuff…

Although I was somewhat impressed by my young yearlings that morning, I was even more proud of the “Old Guard”. These old veterans had showed the new prospects how things were supposed to be done and that was something that could not be easily taught by a “human”. But still, this crew did look funny standing there at the truck waiting for their “treats”. I just could not stop wondering as to where I would go with all these “shrimps”. Except for “Big Boy Vince”, the new recruits looked kind of out of place as far as I was concerned. After all, these young girls tipping the scale at maybe 42 lbs were miniscule compared to the “Baisley Mob” who were mastodons at an average of 73 lbs. But it wasn’t their fault that they were so tiny and on the encouraging side, where they lacked in power and strength, they made up for in speed and enthusiasm.

There was most truth to that statement when you looked at “Kameo” that day. With her muddy white face, oddly paired with the biggest dog in the kennel, she had no fear whatsoever of the “Kid”. Normally, he would usually be the type to try and intimidate his running partner but this little playful black and white Siberian had won his heart. She would lick his face, drop down to roll on her “I’m so cute” side, bite his ankles and even jump on his back for a piggyback ride. To lose his temper with her did not solve anything and besides, the big bruiser kind of liked his new running partner. So for the last month, they had been challenging each other down the trail. Where he would pull hard, she would try to pull harder. Where he would run, she would try to outrun him. To see “Kameo” now sporting the new nickname of “Gino’s little Camaro” work so hard reminded me of when the “Kid” and “Vixen” came into this old musher’s life…

THE BAISLEY MOB

Way back then, six years ago, when I woke up that morning, I was really glad to see that the rain had finally stopped. For those last two days, you might say, I was getting a bit discouraged. One didn’t have to see it on the news to be able to determine that it had been quite the storm. The river in front of the cottages had swollen up and this for over a good two feet. Where did all this rain come from, I had wondered. It wasn’t normal for this time of the year. But then again, I realized while brushing my teeth that I always said the same thing as October brought on these heavy rainfalls every year and this without fail.

That morning, I walked to the mud room and started putting my boots on. My faithful companion, Mosqua, didn’t have to be told what was going on. He was there sitting still like a statue by the door, just sitting there waiting for the words to come out of my mouth. So I got up and said “Let’s go buddy, let’s go feed the kids. I barely had the chance to open the door and he was out. It never stopped to amaze me to see him run out that door. He was like a sprint racer coming out of the starting block. All out and in a straight line. So down the road we headed, out to the barn now baptized by my wife, as the “Howl-A-Day Inn”. Like all mornings, he was going to win this race as it usually took me a while to get the stiffness out of my arthritis riddled legs. Anyway, we couldn’t sneak up on the dogs and were met at the barn by a symphony of jumping and howling.

Mr. Tibbs, a white Siberian Seppala and veteran of the pack, was not the barking type. Rather he was the cool dude who sang his good morning greetings and this till you let him loose after scratching his belly. He had become a beautiful dog over the past year and had accustomed himself to his new surroundings. To see how he kept his kennel clean, it was like he could really appreciate the upgraded accommodations. Tibbs was a dog that had spent three hard years on the racing circuit, having under his belt over 4000 miles. He was hard core and only knew four things in life. He ate then did his business. He ran and then went to sleep. That’s it, that’s all. When I met up with him, that past January, I noticed immediately that this guy had the heart of a lion. Unfortunately, the way I saw things, he had been kept underfed on purpose and was feeling the blunt of it. I had commented to his then owner how beautiful I thought this dog was to which he had replied, “You want him, take the fucking thing! The way he performed today, he’s on his way to becoming coyote bait. The price is right, “free” complete with harness”. Since I had to decide there and then, I took a chance and plunged head first into this world of racing sleddogs. The gamble had paid off. With tender loving care and a good diet, the dog had healed properly and was showing me what a real racer was all about. At five years old, this guy really knew his stuff and worked extra hard every time we went out. I was glad to have him on board.

His neighbor Maggie, the black Malamute/Canadian Eskimo cross, was still young and rather over enthusiastic. It would take a few minutes for her to settle down. Experience had proven that one was better to wait before opening her pen as one could be easily knocked over by this over sized lap dog. It wasn’t her fault. By the age of six months, when I rescued her, I was to be her fourth master. She had started her life as a cute pet to a teacher that had brought her south from Iqaluit. From there, it had been down hill all the way. When I found her, she was spending her entire days in a crowded 4 x 8 enclosure, being dominated by an oversexed 125 pounds male Malamute. It had taken a lot of time and patience but now she seemed to have gotten used to the idea that this was to be her forever home. She still had a few bad habits but the loyalty that she showed towards me made up for these downfalls. So, I would have to brace myself, open the door and let her jump up on her hind legs. This was the ritual. She would put her front legs over my shoulders and now I would have to hug her, whispering in her right ear that she was my favorite. I don’t think she knew what was being said but anyway… it seemed to keep her happy.

Then came the turn for the twins, Vixen and the “Kid”, two Husky/German Shepard mixes that I had found in December of the previous year, in the middle of the boonies of eastern Quebec. In the past, I had driven through that area many of times and had seen the parents. The mother, a pure bred quiet black German Shepard and the father, a large black and white Husky had always made me take notice and wonder what the off springs would look like if these two gorgeous animals ever matched. To my astonished surprise, this had happened that fall and now mother had given birth in a shed struggling to keep her eleven pups fed. I talked to the discouraged owner, offered to take a couple of the puppies off her hands and she gladly accepted. Not being able to decide which one to pick, I told them that the first two little guys that were to come to me would be going home with me to New-Brunswick. It was like they knew a good thing when they saw one. Vixen crawled over her brothers and sisters to come towards me while the “Kid” just plowed through the bunch. After an exhausting 12 foot race, the choice had been made. These two little black and beige “tikes” would be adopted. Now here they were, 10 months old, full of piss and vinegar and almost outweighing my 70 pound Mosqua. Seeing Vixen’s enthusiastic smile was always a welcoming sight and confirmed why I woke up early every morning to feed these dogs. She was affectionate. Never overly exited but always there for you to scratch her underbelly, she was most lovable. What was nice about her was that she had learned early enough not to leave the immediate area and would never wander off. The “Kid”, well, he was in a league of his own. Over the summer, he had showed me what the definition of an “Alpha dominant” male was, always testing himself and his surroundings. He wasn’t scared of anything. He challenged Tibbs and took on Mosqua. Although these clashes had always been noisy and alarming, they never had been for real. The other two dogs seemed to realize that he was still a young punk of a puppy who needed to explore and express himself. Now, when he took on old Billy the goat, this was to be another story. For a period of time this summer, he would go into the goats coral and chase them around. This would always end up with him facing down the ram who would always challenge the “Kid”. Billy would rise on his back legs, shake his horn and charge at the dog. Meanwhile, the “Kid” would run circles around him, barking and trying to nib at the ram’s hind leg. Although this seemed to always end up as a stalemate, Billy did not see the “Kid” as an overly excited puppy but rather as a real and present danger. As for the “Kid”, he always seemed to end up coming out of the coral with a cocky attitude as if he had won some prize fight. We had gotten used to the annoying barking but always hoped that he would get over this bad habit. One day, however, there was to be the final showdown. While I was preparing their food, I heard the “Kid” again edging the goat on. You could tell that Billy was in prime form and was not impressed. Up on his hind legs, he took his attack position, aimed then rammed at the dog. This time, he struck hard and solid sending the dog hurling into the fence. The “Kid” had been stopped dead in his track and was trying to catch his breath. The ram was going to write the final chapter to this daily saga and rammed the dog again, again really connecting and pinning him to the fence. The way the whole fence line shook, I was sure that the “Kid” was dead. Knowing that he had delivered the ultimate blow, Billy backed off and went back to his daily business of eating grass. As for the “Kid”, it took him at least two minutes to recover from this well placed “knock-out” punch. Eventually, he managed to get up, shook the marbles out of his head and staggered out of the coral. He had just realized that you eventually always meet your match and that the thing with the horns was not to be reckoned with. This was just one of the many lessons of life he had learned over the summer. Now, he seemed to be very mature for his young age and had somewhat settled down. He would not run to you for affection but never missed an opportunity to greet people but this according to his own agenda. After raising them all this time, these two pups had grown up to be members of our family. Seeing them here and now made me realize one thing. They had provided us with numerous good moments over the summer and a lifestyle that was unbelievably gratifying. Anyway I opened their doors and out they came greeted by Maggie as they went out the barn door.

Last but not least, it was “JR’s” turn to come out. Mr. Tibb’s son who was a souvenir left behind by “Tibbs” when he departed the previous owner’s kennel. As I had been impressed by the father, the man had thought that I might be interested in the son. The genetics had potential and besides he was snow white like his father. When I first met up with the pup, it had been hard not to fall in love with him. Six weeks old, both ears standing straight up and ice blue eyes. Although the quiet one of the bunch, you could tell that “JR” was going to be special. Just don’t know what it was but he didn’t prove me wrong. He was now seven months old, the quiet reserved type who had been a pleasure to raise. His first time in harness with the pack the previous month had showed the potential in the little guy. Like a trooper, 25 feet in the training session, he was pulling on that tug line as if he had been doing it for years. So now here they were outside, the “mob”, all jumping at each other, I guess, glad to see each other and saying Good Morning. This was alright as it gave them time to relieve themselves while I prepared their meals. When the food was ready, I banged the feed cup against the bottom of a metal bowl and called out for them to come for breakfast. This to them was one of the highlights of their day. Wherever they were, they stopped doing whatever and made a mad dash to the barn. Although looking like total chaos to see them rush, it was impressive to see them all go to their own bowl and this without ever a miss. It was a good thing because Maggie did not and would not tolerate anybody feeding in her bowl. The water had been tested and the results had been instant and drastic. Although not dominant, Maggie was very territorial about her area and did not tolerate anybody invading her space, eating her food. That was now a respected protocol and everybody was eating out of their own bowl. Everybody, except “JR” - He still figured that if he went and inspected the other dogs bowls when they were finished, he might find some leftovers. I guess he never yet realized that like him, they were all hungry sleddogs that emptied their bowl like it was their last meal. Anyway, the mob had been fed and after giving them time to digest, we would be going on a training session...

Yeah, there they were then also “rookies” and here they are now of all things, teaching others.
= -)

To be continued…