details, which at the time we wished had never happened but now are cherished and fondly retold for their humor, or significance, or for truths they reveal.
The driving force of sharing these stories is to give readers a glimpse of what it’s like to truly live a half-feral Alaskan lifestyle as we have and still do, so they can vicariously experience and comprehend the magnitude of responsibility, and all the joy, pain, and myriad other emotions that come from the fabric of a life threaded through and through by the fur of forty dogs.
We don’t own our dogs; they are a part of us, our lives inextricably intertwined. For those who spend more time around people than animals, this is a tough concept to comprehend. Looking at a yard full of high-strung huskies, most outsiders to our world don’t see the individuals, distinctly dissimilar from each other. To most folks, they’re merely different sized and colored canines. They don’t see what we see. They don’t understand the unique personalities or our shared histories with each one. But this is a chance to see it all.
This isn’t just a rare opportunity to experience remote areas of Alaska without having to rough it, to know white-knuckle excitement without ever leaving the living room, and to briefly be part of the fraternity of the fur-clad without feeling the sting of Arctic air or ever fearing frostbite. More than that, these stories detail the dramatic communion between humans and canines, and in a way that is honest, authentic, and at times raw to the bone.
Through my words, I want people to see the puppy we caught at birth, seconds old, still wet and wriggling, but quickly growing within weeks to yip and yap to get us to play longer no matter how much frolicking we had already done. To witness the scared pup shivering in the corner of the sterile chain-link stall at the animal shelter, that prior to adoption was too afraid to even make eye contact with us, much less believe we could be the bearer of a new lease on life. To learn how awkward and gangly they all were once, tripping over their own paws the first time we harnessed them up and ran them in a team. To experience seeing the dogs that went on to excel at what we trained them to do and exceeded our expectations when their own primitive instincts and prowess for the outdoors took over.
With forty dogs comes forty deaths. You can’t have the yin without the yang. In the following pages, readers will also come to understand you don’t just pay heavy emotional dues; you take out a second mortgage on your heart. To feel the concern when the dogs’ internal fires begin to burn down, their muzzles turn gray in retirement, and muscles that once bulged and rippled are replaced with a stiffness so painful we have to lift the dogs from their cushy beds and carry them outside to relieve themselves. To undergo the anguish and heartbreak that comes from standing by helplessly as a companion you’ve known, and seen, and cared for everyday for a lifetime finally bears the breadth of elsewhere. To not only lose that friend, but have them die in your arms while you look into their eyes and unabashedly whisper in their ear how much they meant.
This book is an invitation to understand the essence of life with forty dogs in its entirety, and through that comprehension to truly appreciate what we see every day, and never take for granted how special it is. This is my goal, my purpose, my need—to share the intrinsic nature and indispensable quality that determines each dog and defines their unique character and personality. Not everyone can sacrifice their spare time, salaries, and sanity to get to know so many characters—from the well-mannered to the wily—but this book will reveal the endless adventures and misadventures that come to those, like us, who have made a life-changing canine commitment.
A Rogues’ Gallery
No more stories at the pound,” Cole pleaded, as I walked in cradling the newest addition to the kennel, one of several in recent months to join our ranks after being abandoned or surrendered at the local animal shelter.
My wife’s statement came partially in jest, since I always consulted her by phone beforehand, but like me, she found it difficult if not impossible to say “no” to a dog once we had actually experienced face-to-face contact. The animal’s anonymity dissolved, no longer a static mugshot on a computer screen or newspaper ad with the words “For Adoption” over its picture. Peering into the eyes of a hopeful inmate at the pound—in fur and flesh—made them more real, made their plight more painful to ignore, made their prospect for living or dying an at-hand decision. In these moments, disregarding the opportunity to save a dog was inconceivable. “We’re running out of room,” Cole said.
She wasn’t wrong. At the time we didn’t even own our home or property. We were living on half an acre of land, renting a cabin with the same interior square footage and charm of a small submarine. In that one-room residence existed all our worldly possessions: a frameless futon mattress that served as the bed; a folding card table with two metal chairs for eating dinner and hosting company; a twelve-inch television that picked up (if you squinted) one channel; one pot, one pan, one teakettle, two sets of silverware, and a box with all our clothes.
In addition, we already allowed half a dozen dogs to live inside with us, including Ping and Pong—two others who originated from the pound a few weeks earlier. While working on a story about pet adoptions for the local newspaper, I spied the tiny pup we would later name Ping at the back of one of the sterile runs made of chain-link and concrete. Fuzzy, gray, and seemingly oblivious to the mere days she had left to live if not adopted, I felt my heart not so much melt as turn gooey with empathetic emotions. Her appearance also reminded me—almost exactly—of Goliath, a dog we had acquired a few months earlier, but whose cookie-sweet personality had won me over.
The pup we later named Ping stares longingly out of her cage at the Kenai Animal Shelter. We adopted her and her mother, whom we named Pong, the day after this picture was taken.
At the close of the workday I sped home to plead my case to Cole. She capitulated, but when I returned to the pound the next morning the tiny pup now snuggled with a full-grown but otherwise identical version of itself, which to my dismay I found out was its mother.
“Yesterday, we had them separated briefly for cleaning, but they came in together,” said the shelter manager, a lanky, mustached man with a 1,000-yard stare I assume he developed from the same post-traumatic stress that causes it in soldiers—seeing too much death.
“They’re not a package deal, but it’d be great if they went together,” he added.
I stood dumbfounded, time pooling in the present as my mind worked through the decision it now had to make. I hadn’t come for two dogs, nor did I desire to leave with two, but how could I live with myself if I only took home this pup, severed the bond between it and the only creature that unconditionally loved it till that point, and potentially doomed the mother to death by lethal injection should she hit the end of her allotted time span for adoption?
I knew I couldn’t, and by the gleam in the shelter manager’s eye, I think he knew it too. I called Cole to briefly explain these new circumstances.
“Well, saving the pup and killing the mom isn’t my definition of a rescue,” she said.
With that approval, not only did Ping come home, so did her mother, whom we named Pong.
Weeks later, when I returned to the pound for a follow-up story, I distinctly felt like a mark whose emotions the shelter manager knew could be played like a fish on the end of a line.
“Well, while you’re here, take a look at this one. She may be a good fit for your program,” he said, his arm on my shoulder, steering me to my future furry acquisition.
This time, the dog cowering at the back of the run seemed much more aware of the severity of its
