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…