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

The small of the lynx lingered, and made Robby look around sharply, heaving himself to his feet. A dog was no match for a lynx, especially a sick dog, and he knew that he best be gone from here. At first he walked slowly like a tender-footed puppy. Then he grew bolder and strong enough to trot down the hills to find water and maybe more fish.

Robby splashed into the shallow edges of the calm pool at the edge of the river. He gulped down so much water that he burped some of it up before laying down to settle his stomach. He dozed a bit sheltered in a willow patch that smelled like young moose, this spring’s calf most likely. He licked his paws glad that they weren’t so tender any longer.

His stomach settled after a while, so he got up feeling more alive and padded down river letting his nose lead him on. He came across a half-eaten moose calf, most likely the one that had bedded down in the willows. It looked like a lone wolf had brought it down. Robby thought it strange how much meat was left even after the lynx he had smelled earlier had its fill. He chomped down the sweet, tender meat only a few hours old while keeping an eye on the woods, his back to the river.

When he heard a rustling in the dying grass, he growled savagely, swallowing a hunk of meat, watching the grass be pushed down before the fat porcupine. The medium sized pin-covered butter-ball grunted and ground its teeth at Robby. He snarled eyeing the cranky, odd beaver-faced, alien-looking animal with annoyance. He remembered when he was a pup and dumb enough to bite at a porcupine’s back. All that got him was a mouthful of quills, wounded pride, and long painful day of the Miss sitting on him with a pair of pliers pulling one at a time out of his tender jowls.

The porcupine moved on down the river not concerned about walking by Robby with its back to him. Robby glared at the brave little barbed animal knowing very few animals bothered with them unless they were truly starving. Robby suddenly wished his own back and tail were armored in needle sharp quills. This horrible long journey wouldn’t be so horrible if he had armor.

Robby ate his fill, even resting a few times to stuff himself more, before moving on. He was surprised to find that wolf’s kill. He could smell the strong male wolf’s urine around the edges of the woods where it had marked. He had successfully dodged the long legged, empty-bellied, eating machines so far and wondered when his luck would run out. He had crossed the mountains unharmed, and stuck close to the woods near the highway where man was.

He knew that this far south, the wolves kept deep into the woods and avoided man. There was plenty of game to keep them busy. The coyotes were the ones he had to worry about in the woods of the Kenai Peninsula.

Mile after mile passed under his paws as he loped along feeling fresh and renewed. But not perfect. His head and body ached and he felt sick, but he knew he would recover with time and rest. He wagged his tail as he turned and crested an outcropping of rocks that jutted high above the trees.

Robby stood feeling the wind rustling his matted, dirty fur. The sun burned the warmth into his bones leaving no trace of the chill from the shadows of the woods that had been there. He barked and hopped like a puppy gazing over the flat sparsely treed tundra before the town of Sterling, Alaska, a joyous spot of light on the horizon.

He was almost home.

With a happy leap he raced as fast as he could toward the lights in the growing darkness; the sounds and smells of man made his feet move faster. He had broken free of his gloom and held hope upon hearing the sounds of vehicles on the road. He was right on track.

He had to get home.

He had to see her, one last time.

Robby walked through the night and the next day. He walked through marshland and thick spruce and birch woods; he passed through neighborhoods that popped out of nowhere, and pastures where cows and horses — even lamas — looked at him with weary eyes and stiff legs ready to run if he made a move on them.

Robby was on a mission. He looked forward, never wavering from where his heart and nose told him to go.

He was almost home.

At times he ran, but he grew sick and tired and went back to his rushed walk. He was so excited to see his Miss again, to smell her smell again, to sit by Nana’s grave and watch the stars. He even missed the mean tom cat the Miss’s ma had.

Robby began to think about all his memories. He remembered the day he bit the boy who tried to hurt his Miss, and how tightly she hugged him when the boy and his pack ran away. He remembered Ice Eyes, the Miss’s brother, who snuck out late at night and Robby followed until the boy sent him away. He remembered everything and he suddenly wagged his tail with a happy bark, picking up his pace limping terribly. His mind became sharp with determination.

He was weary by the time he stumbled out of the woods on to a familiar trail that followed the path of the giant power lines that “crisscrossed the world,” as Nana once had said. He was running down the trail when a strong sent hit his nose. He slid to a stop on the hard packed mud of the trail that man drove their ATV’s on. He hunkered low, gazing around in the dark that gripped the quiet woods.

He smelled fresh blood and coyote.

He was in big trouble.

He heard them yip and make their eerie barks to one another. Robby crawled to the edge of the trail hoping they didn’t smell or see him as he crawled along silently. Suddenly, there was a wailing howl and the woods exploded in noises. Robby leaped into a run and raced down the trail as fast as he could only to be flanked by shining-eyed coyotes. There were as big as Robby; the summer had been good to them; they had eaten well. There were a dozen of them howling their eerie howl racing around him. They surrounded him snapping and biting, pulling mouthfuls of fur off of him. Robby roared, sinking his fangs and claws into them.

The lean coyotes tumbled over one another just to get a chance to bite Robby. They had dog meat on their minds. The feral beasts were known to commonly eat dogs in the last few years in this area. Their haunting wild, crazed eyes glinted in the dim light; they looked mad with hunger. Their long fangs were bared in the air, their gaping jaws waiting for something to sink into. Robby was in a frenzy ripping and tearing back at the hungry coyotes. He didn’t think; he didn’t have time to think. In his fight for his life, he didn’t notice the group of dogs that came to his rescue, bursting from the tall grass in mighty leaps.

The pack of dogs had heard the coyotes earlier in the night and had been on the alert protecting the very edges of their masters’ land. The rag-tag mismatched team dwarfed Robby and the coyotes as they sank their mighty jaws around the coyotes and ripped them away from Robby with thundering roars and growls, reminding Robby of his encounter with the grizzly at the river.

Robby lay panting and bleeding in the mud of the trail, listening to the angry growls of the fleeing coyotes. He felt light-headed and woozy as he pushed himself to his feet. His front leg crumpled under him when he tried to stand on it and he fell back down.

“You alright, Robby?” growled a large, shaggy black male dog named Bear, from the log house by the lake three miles away. He towered over Robby, sniffing him.

“We thought you were not returning when your master returned from the long drive without you,” quietly the female black and white husky mix growled licking his ripped ear. She was the smallest of the pack and lived with the grey old man who logged the forest just down the road from Robby himself. She was named Molly.