Mike Dillingham - Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers - The Adventures of Balto, Back of the Pack, Honor Bound, Rivers

He hadn’t realized that he was zoning out until he stumbled on the edge of pavement. He squinted in the sharp light from the sunset, glancing around. He saw a bridge to his right. He remembered that bridge; they went over it on the way home! He perked up and wagged his tail weakly. The river had brought him so much closer than he had expected. He looked to his left and saw buildings. He remembered them, too, the Miss got ice cream from there. Robby felt hope and a surge of strength, and trotted with a bad limp toward the buildings.

He sniffed around the back of the building knowing it was hopeless; everything was kept neat and tidy so bears didn’t get into anything. He found a few bits of food here and there but nothing satisfying. A breeze suddenly brought a whiff of hot dogs and burgers to him, and in the dim light of the fading day he saw movement across the road at the parking area for fishers and boaters who launched near the great bridge.

Robby carefully made his way back across the quiet road and into the parking area attempting to not be seen. He followed his nose to a pickup that had a small propane heated cook top with a big, square cast-iron pan full of hot dogs, sausages, and burgers cooking up. They sizzled under his nose as he stood on his hind feet resting his front paws on the tailgate.

He felt guilty but he was hungry, and no one was watching anyway. He could hear them at the dock talking about the day’s catch and ignoring the bear lure they had left on their tailgate. Robby leaned forward feeling his claw wound crack and begin to bleed, but he ignored it as he gobbled up everything of the hot grill one by one. He burned his tongue and his mouth, but he didn’t care. He gulped down every trace of meat and burped, feeling overly full, almost sick. Satisfied, he hurried into the woods waiting and watching the men discover his bad deed. They looked around and rushed about, suspecting it had been a bear and not a dog.

Robby went back across the road to sleep under a truck behind the neat and tidy store. He slept well, but his full belly made him burp all night; he bloated with gas and rolled from one side to the other. In the morning he was awakened by the store keeper’s happy whistle while the older man shuffled about with boxes, tossing garbage in the locking dumpster. The store keeper acted like he had forgotten something. Pushing his glasses upon his nose and glancing around he left a bag of garbage that smelled of good scraps by the door. Mumbling to himself, he wandered back into the store room. Robby rushed over. Not knowing when his next meal would come, he ripped open the bag gulping down over-heated hotdogs and chicken, nachos, pre-made sandwiches that were out dated and ice cream cones.

He heard the store keeper coming and raced off as fast as he could limp into the woods. He was off again, on his way to her. He had made it farther than he had ever expected to.

He followed the wide, rushing river. The highway followed it most of the way anyway. He knew the name of this place; Nana had called it Cooper Landing. Nana had known many words of the human tongue. She was with the Miss when she was very young and they grew to understand each other. It wasn’t hard to do. All one had to do was listen very carefully; that was why Nana was so wise.

He was careful to dodge any bear smells and the sharp beaks and claws of the greedy bald eagles. The great black and white birds screeched at him as he passed. He thought he spied a golden eagle, but left quickly wanting no part of that goliath bird. The mass amounts of birds varying in size and color came to feast on the spawned out salmon that wasted away in the shallows and on the shore.

Robby stopped to rest and drink, staring at the land around him and feeling confident in his journey for once. He was awe struck by the beauty of it all — the raging river that wove through the shallow mountains at the edge of the mighty monsters he had snuck through almost unnoticed. He took a deep breath, noticing how easy it was to breath at the lower elevation. He scratched at his good shoulder and winched from the pain it caused when he put weight on his bear-scratched shoulder.

He looked down at himself. His glossy, golden fur was a dull brown filth and he knew he smelled like a wolverine. They weren’t called skunk bears for nothing. The massive weasels crawled inside their kill and ate their scavenged meals from the inside out. He knew he looked and smelled that bad. He began to lick himself in an attempt to clean himself but gave up after the horrid taste that came into his mouth. His mood darkened to cranky and irritated. He got to his feet and moved on, grumbling to himself.

Over the next few days, Robby ate a lot of fish. He usually only ate it as a winter snack when dog food ran short. He liked it more than dog food; it was tasty and fresh. But his body was not used to all the wild foods he had been eating and he got diarrhea from it, leaving him feeling kind of sick as he left the banks of the river. He grazed on grass, hoping it would help his boiling belly.

He went back into the forest and pointed his nose toward home, glad to be leaving the bears and the sharp talons and razor-beaked birds behind. He worried about leaving all the fish behind knowing he couldn’t hunt anymore, he was just too worn out.

Some sun leaked into the woods he loped through; it warmed his stiff aching body. He was traveling too slowly and he knew it. He was feeling sickly and worn down, but he was too afraid to lie down and sleep for fear he wouldn’t wake up. His bear claw wound was fevered and smelled rotten. He cleaned it as best he could, but it made his neck cramp to crane his head around to lick his wounded shoulder.

He wove his way through the forest as it rose and fell at the edge of the mountains. He pushed on feeling at times like just giving up. His thoughts of his Miss began to blur, and at those moments he wondered why he was working so hard just to get home to her.

He was marching on, stumbling and weaving back and forth on the game trail he had found before he became so sick. Finally, he stumbled and fell on his chin and chest with his tail in the air. He had no strength to pull his feet back under him; he had no will, and no more power left in him. So he dropped his body to the side and lay where he fell.

For three days he didn’t move.

The birds gathered around waiting for him to begin his journey to the Great Sleep of death.

He slept hard, a fearful sick sleep that left him drenched in a sick sweat, the sweat of the dying. He didn’t make a noise, just breathed. Ravens watched him, waiting for his breathing to stop, waiting for him to die. Gray jays laughed and cried out, hopping around him pulling tufts of hair from him to see if his skin twitched in response.

But still he slept.

Once a lynx boldly walked up to him and sniffed him. Its large yellow eyes swept over his sickly form, smelling the fever and the festering wounds. Its tufted ears twitched hearing him breath shallowly and slowly. To the raven’s surprise, the skinny long-legged wild cat walked away, its big feet silent as it walked through the dead leaves, the browning grass, and the seeding fireweed.

Robby awoke groggy and weak, feeling the cold “winter’s coming” bite to the air. He pulled himself up so he was laying on his belly. He panted from the effort as he gazed around with his vision blurry. Despite feeling weak, hungry, and thirsty, he felt rested and better. He barked at the ravens with a dry throat sending them away with angry, disappointed caws.