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

The summer has been frantically busy. I’ve been working six or seven days a week at Hudson’s, usually 10 to 12 hours a day, sometime longer. We’re completely at the whim of the weather, the Mountain, and the Great God of Tourists. It’s a crazy business, sitting around drinking coffee on rainy days and flying nonstop until midnight on others.

I usually don’t get home until late in the evening, and then it’s about all I can do to feed the dogs and drop into the sack. My main consolation is I’m at least earning a paycheck doing something I enjoy (most of the time) and most Alaskans are keeping the same skewed hours I am. We’re all trying to wring the most out of the magic but short subarctic summer.

On the puppy front, I’ve been able to give away several. The smallest of Josephine’s seven went to one of my former fourth graders at Elmendorf (with her parents’ approval, of course) and four of Black Ace’s have gone to other folks around the Valley. I may keep one or two of her remaining males, but I’ll drop the others off at the Mat-Su Humane Society, which accepts puppies for $20 each and will hold them until they’re adopted.

Bea’s pups are down at Bert’s now, and Josephine’s are back here; we felt it would be good to get Bea’s brood socialized with Bert’s kids — such pups always make better dogs. I’ve kept Blues’ pups here; I’ll probably keep all of them (five males and a female) until I can decide which have the best potential.

Blues’ lone female pup, the smallest of the lot, is also the perkiest and most inquisitive. She’s managed to escape the pen repeatedly and has completely endeared herself to me. Diana Moroney (who developed the line from which Blues is descended) said the small females in the family tend to be the best leaders, and little Skeeter, as I’ve started calling the peripatetic escape artist, certainly seems to be headed in that direction.

Josephine’s pups remain my crown jewels. They have impeccable bloodlines and great attitudes and are developing into truly beautiful animals with all the makings of top-notch sled dogs. Kim has kept one of Josephine’s males, Napoleon, for herself; she’ll bring him up to start training this winter. The remaining five are on my lot and each is starting to come into its own. Bonnie and Clyde (each with one blue eye and one brown) are feisty and curious. Pretty Boy (as in Floyd) and Kate (for Klondike Kate, a notorious Yukon madam) are bouncy and gregarious. Belle Starr is smaller and quieter, but no less active and affectionate.

It’s amazing how fast puppies can metamorphose from anonymous little fuzzballs with legs to individual dogs with real personalities. There is an almost irresistible tendency to treat them as little humans because they change so quickly into identifiable entities. In many ways they are like children, and it’s fascinating to watch as they learn about their environment. I know I’m not the first person to fall under this spell, but that doesn’t stop me from becoming sort of a kid again myself as the pups drag me into their play.

And surprisingly, I find I’ve still got time and affection for all of my dogs — pups and adults — though there are now more than 40 of them. I suppose it’s good training for being a teacher. In a way, my dogs are not much different from a classroom full of permanent grade-schoolers, all needing lots of attention and learning and discipline, and above all, lots of love.

This custom license plate says it all: Alaska is the world mecca for dog mushing, and dog trucks are a common sight on the roads during the mushing season.

Tragedy comes in many forms, but it’s cruelest when it strikes the young. Belle Starr, one of my prize pups from Josephine’s litter, stopped eating last week and began to go quickly downhill. A couple of days ago I took her to the vet in Wasilla, where she died this morning, from parvo.

I don’t know how the disease got into my lot; it’s possible the ravens and Canada jays which make the rounds of the local dog lots to steal dog food brought the virus in from somebody’s else’s yard. It’s also just as likely I or a visitor tracked it in; it’s virtually unstoppable under most conditions. The hardest part to take is not the disease’s high mortality rate, but rather the suffering it causes and the fact it is so devastating to puppies in particular.

I’ve been careful to give all of the pups their shots, but the vet said something just didn’t work with Belle’s immune system. She never really had a chance against this terrible scourge that descended on the canine world barely a decade and a half ago. Within a day or two, Belle was obviously in pain with fever and vomiting and bloody stools and there was nothing I could do.

Professional treatment is expensive and not always successful, and many mushers won’t try to throw good money after a sick pup (or simply can’t afford to). But I felt I owed it to her. I’d gotten to know her a couple of weeks ago when I found her shivering at midnight in a cold rain. I brought her into the house, dried her off, and then put her under the covers of my bed to warm her. By morning, she was perky and nibbling on my ear to wake me up. As any child knows, it’s not hard to quickly become attached to a pup, and I’m certainly no exception.

Losing her was a double blow. Mentally I was prepared for the worst, but it still hurts. And now I must worry about all of the other pups catching the fiendishly persistent virus. My only real defense is to keep on the vaccination schedule, and I’ve already ordered enough vaccine to protect a small army.

But the damage is done and the vaccine apparently isn’t always effective; the odds are I’ll lose more pups before the summer is over. The serpent has entered the garden. My puppies — and I — will never be innocent again.

The past week has been a painful emotional roller coaster. The parvo has spread throughout my lot and I don’t know how much more damage it will do. And I don’t know if I’m going to be able to handle it emotionally if it gets much worse.

Two days after Belle died, Pretty Boy stopped eating; I took him in to the vet, determined to fight the virus regardless of the cost. Next morning, he was doing better, but Kate was sick. When I dropped her off, the vet said Pretty Boy looked well enough to go home. However, he collapsed next morning and I had to make an emergency run back down to the vet; he died that afternoon. Kate is still hanging on, basically in intensive care, and the vet says to expect the worst.

And last night Little Guy, one of the three-month-old males from Blues’ litter, started throwing up. I pulled him out of the puppy pen and isolated him in a portable kennel, although I fear it won’t do much good. After the past week I can’t afford to send him to the vet and all I can do is try to give him medication to soothe his stomach and try to help him keep down fluids. Based on recent events, I’m afraid he will be gone in another day or two. His littermates are still okay, but then, so were Kate and Pretty Boy.

Bonnie and Clyde, my two remaining pups from Josephine’s litter, seem healthy. The vet says every additional day they stay well is a good sign the shots have taken hold and they won’t be infected. I almost break down as I watch them play with each other, next to the empty chains and food dishes of their brother and sisters.