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

The portrait was of a hero as familiar to most Americans as would be Charles Lindbergh, the dashing young aviator who would soon make the first nonstop solo crossing of the Atlantic in his monoplane, The Spirit of St. Louis .

It was Balto! Kimble stopped with a jolt. He studied the museum’s short handout: “Last Chance to See the Great Balto and His World-Famous Alaska Huskies, Undoubtedly the Bravest Dogs That Ever Lived.”

Kimble was incredulous (in-KREj-yew-luss) — unwilling to believe the claim was true. How could Balto possibly have become an exhibit in a cheap sideshow? Was it some sort of gimmick, or trick, to get people to spend a dime? Frowning sternly at the ticket-taker, he paid his dime and stepped through the darkened door.

What Kimble saw in the museum’s hot, airless back room appalled him. Adrenalin surged through his body like an electrical charge, just as in the old days, when he would step inside the boxing ring. But he didn’t want to hit anybody. He simply wanted to help the scrawny, whimpering dogs. And he saw instantly that it wasn’t going to be enough to pet them and fill their empty water bowls. He had to get them out of there — as soon as possible. In a flash of inspiration, he knew exactly how.

Kimble, who was well-known in Cleveland’s business community, immediately sent a dispatch to an editor at the Cleveland Plain Dealer . In the telegram, he described the dogs’ plight and asked the paper to help him launch a campaign to raise money to buy the dogs from whoever owned them.

“It was some kind of shame that those heroic dogs — who had saved a city — should end their days in a dusty dime museum,” Kimble wrote, ending: “Shame on mankind.” The paper responded quickly — as good newspapers should in times of crisis. Within hours, it authorized Kimble to negotiate the deal. Once the owner agreed to sell the dogs, the paper would launch a campaign to raise the money.

The next day, February 21, the Cleveland Plain Dealer printed a short story about the dogs’ plight. Kimble was good at making deals and soon made one with Sam Houston, who agreed to sell the seven dogs for $2,000, which was a lot of money in those days — $19,420 in today’s dollars. But there was one major sticking point: The money had to be raised in 10 days, or the deal was off.

A Cleveland Balto Committee of prominent citizens was formed, and on March 1, the Plain Dealer ran a story announcing the campaign to raise money to buy the dogs. Within 24 hours, more than $200 was raised.

That news was reported on March 2 in a story listing the name of every person who had contributed, along with the amount he or she had given.

The Western Reserve Kennel Club had given $50 — $485.50 in today’s dollars! Kimble had given $25; several people had given $1, and one person had given 50 cents — for a total of $205.50.

The city’s response was explosive. People from every segment of society responded — adults as well as children, rich people as well as poor, each giving what he or she could, sometimes quarters, nickels or even pennies.

To keep the campaign alive, the Plain Dealer wrote daily stories about the citizens’ generosity and continued to list the names of every contributor and contribution. “CHILDREN CHIP IN TO SWELL BALTO FUND; Contributions Reach $338 as Invalids, Workers and Institutions Get Behind the Campaign,” the headline on the March 3 story heralded. The story began, “Balto’s fund took another leap toward its goal of $2,000 yesterday as children, invalids and employes of several companies, and workers in offices, public libraries, banks and the Museum of Natural History got behind the movement.” (“Invalids,” a term rarely used today, meant people in nursing homes and sanatoriums, or places where sick people went to rest and recuperate.) Some kids chipped in their lunch money or the money they would have spent on candy.

Three Cleveland radio stations helped out by broadcasting appeals for contributions. Radio stations in New York and Detroit broadcast appeals, too. Theaters donated a percentage of their box office receipts or put collection boxes in their lobbies; restaurants set special “Balto” cans on their counters. Three glamorous young models, wrapped in raccoon coats and wearing cloches, or cute little close-fitting hats, sailed through the streets in an open convertible, even though it was cold out, holding a sign that boasted: “Watch the Cleveland Plain Dealer Bring Balto to Cleveland.”

Every day, there was a new story with a new total for the amount of money raised. Then on Tuesday, March 8, the campaign hit a potentially serious snag: The paper announced that another group, the Los Angeles Alaskan Society, had told Houston it was prepared to buy the dogs if Cleveland failed to meet its 10-day deadline. “WEST EAGER TO BUY BALTO BEFORE CITY” the Plain Dealer warned. “Los Angeles Society Set to Make Purchase; Option Expires Tomorrow; Don’t Fail at $1,382!”

Roald Amundsen, who was to speak in Cleveland on Friday, had sent a telegraph to the paper the previous day in support of the campaign, and his statement was included in the March 8 story: “Do what you can for these brave dogs and secure them a bright future. They certainly deserve it.”

The Plain Dealer’s March 9 story was even more ominous: “BALTO MUST HAVE $500 BY TONIGHT.” It ran on the front page with a large photograph of five of the dogs, including Balto, and five children — Clevelanders and former Clevelanders who were in Los Angeles and had visited the dogs. The plea and picture sparked a last-minute spurt of generosity, pushing the fund over the top.

The next morning, the fund hit $2,245.88 — more than enough to buy the dogs. “CITY WINS BALTO BY GOOD MARGIN; Huskies to be Shipped at Once,” the day’s headlines proudly proclaimed.

In a short interview, Amundsen, who had arrived in Cleveland, commended the city for its humanitarianism. The City of Oslo, Norway, had once done for another dog what Cleveland was doing for Balto, he said. The dog had accompanied him on his historic expedition to the South Pole — and was the only husky of 100 to return. (Does the story sound familiar? It should.) Amundsen said that when he returned home, Oslo voted to let the dog roam freely around the city for the rest of its life, as a kind of canine honorary citizen. Butcher shops agreed to give the dog free meals. When it died — its name wasn’t given in the story — taxidermists preserved the corpse, which Amundsen said was in an Oslo museum. (And what about the other 99 dogs — or 53 dogs, depending on whose version of the expedition you read — that failed to return from the trip? The story didn’t say, but we already know, don’t we? They were eaten!) Elation swept through Cleveland, filling everyone with pride — as if the Cleveland Indians had won the World Series. The 1,200 people who had given money — and even those who hadn’t — felt really good about what their city had accomplished in record time. It was as if everyone had gotten report cards with all “As” — As for Altruism, or do-goodism. The final tally was $2,362.94 — enough to pay for first-class shipping for what would be the dogs’ last, but best, train ride across the country.

Balto, Fox, Alaska Slim, Billy, Sye, Old Moctoc and Tillie emerged from the dime museum into the soft California sunlight. As weakened as they were, they felt hopeful and happy — as if the long Arctic winter had just ended and the sun had just popped over the horizon after months and months of darkness. They stopped whimpering, and their hearts began to sing again. The strongest among them even sang a few trial notes of the happy song for which huskies are so famous.