No one would ever guess that Pig was anything special. But I know better.
Pig’s always been a tiny but tough dog. She looks more like a Border Collie-mix than a husky - 45 lbs. soaking wet, black and white coat, brown eyes, long and pointy snout, satellite dish ears. Nothing flashy.
A few months ago, Terry Adkins, my first dog mushing mentor, finally told me that I could have Pig if I still wanted her.
At ten years of age, Pig was now too slow to run as a lead dog. Her chronically sore shoulder made it difficult for her to drag puppies around on training runs. And she wasn’t even a good, consistent breeding bitch; Pig tends to throw fuzzy, “collie-hair” pups - the result of her bloodlines going directly back to the Inuit and Eskimo village dogs in Alaska. Nowadays, mushers prefer Alaskan Huskies with thinner coats because of the constant worry of sled dogs overheating in the warmer winter weather.
Pig, who’d been a working dog since 6 months of age, was now out of a job.
“Of course, I’ll take her,” I said.
For three years, I’d been waiting for this day. When I stopped working at Terry’s kennel in Sand Coulee and began creating my own sled dog team, I asked Terry if I could buy Pig.
“5000 bucks,” he said. No joke - she was a darn good dog but I didn’t have that kind of cash.
Pig was my canine prodigy. Yeah, Terry owned her, but I trained her and raced her and loved her for the bulk of her career. At the time, he had his own great leaders - Boots and Fox - so I had to fashion and form my own “front end,” choosing from the leftovers in the kennel. I picked Pig and she readily rose to the challenge. She became my once-in-a-lifetime lead dog - the kind many mushers will only ever dream of running. I felt horrible leaving her behind when I moved, but I had no choice. I told Terry that when it was Pig’s time to retire, she belonged on my couch. He agreed. He loves Pig too.
Three years passed and times changed. I went from owning 50-some huskies to two pet dogs - Borage, a retired sled dog, and Jigs, a German Jagd Terrier. Now, I live in a small, in-town apartment without a fenced-in backyard. A good chunk of my day is devoted to exercising my high-energy hounds; it helps that I’ve taken up long distance trail running as a hobby.
To be honest, when Terry finally said that Pig was ready to retire, I didn’t know what to do. The idea of living with three working dogs in one apartment seemed insane. But dog mushers are a crazy lot, and I owe Pig. I literally couldn’t have finished the 1,100-mile Iditarod Sled Dog Race (twice) without her leading the way to Nome.
So one day, I arrived back at Terry’s kennel and swung open the gate to her pen. She went charging out of the dog yard like she knew this was the first day of the rest of her life.
Pig slipped into our daily routine with unbelievable ease.
Thankfully because of her age, she’s ready and willing to spend extended periods of time napping. She prefers to sleep inside of a dog crate with the door open. And she has an obsession with hoarding bedding. Even though she has her own thick and plush, brand new bed, she often steals the other dogs’ beds, dragging them into her crate when no one is watching. Pig spent the first 10 years of her life sleeping on the hard ground, snow, or straw - now, she’s in heaven. Last week, I found one of my own pillows in her crate.
Pig likes to watch me cook. She sits on the staircase so she can look down on what I’m doing, cocking her head back and forth with interest. I often offer her a bite, but she rarely takes it unless it’s a hunk of raw meat. She’s always been a watcher, a curious one.
Apparently, Pig has observed me drinking a few beers. One evening after a long trail run, I placed a frosty mug of beer and tomato juice on the floor next to the couch. I went back into the kitchen to grab my plate of pasta. When I returned, my glass was almost empty. Pig sat in front of me with a dripping red mustache and chin. She drank the last beer in the house.
Even though Pig is old and gray and moves with a chronic limp, I remember her locating lost trails, running into brutal headwinds on the frozen Bering Sea, whipping the team extra wide around holes in the ice. She deserves a stack of dog beds, raw steak dinners, even my last beer.
This Bud’s for Pig.
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