Last week as I stood on a busy, downtown Chicago street corner in the heavy rain waiting for the crosswalk light to change, I heard a voice behind me.
“How much do you charge?” someone spoke over my shoulder.
“Huh?” I said, turning around.
“What is your fee?” an elderly gentleman asked me. “Do you charge by the hour?”
The tall, rail-thin man wore a yellow rain slicker, shiny black shoes and shielded himself and his Schnauzer from the downpour with an oversized red umbrella. My dogs – Borage, Jigs, and Pig – about yanked me off my feet trying to get a closer whiff of his distinguished, silver-bearded terrier. They circled the fearless dog this way and that way, tangling the three 18-ft. long flexi- leashes into one limp and useless line.
I had no idea what this guy was talking about, and I didn’t really want to know. Those aren’t the kind of questions any respectable girl lingering at a big city intersection wants to hear.
The old man was serious though. Unfazed by the pack of dogs trying to instigate a play session with his canine companion, he continued his thought.
“I’ve been trying to find someone to walk Otto. I can’t always get him out like I want to. He enjoys a good, brisk hike along the lake. He likes to look at birds.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle – the old man assumed I was a professional dog walker. After all, I did have two Alaskan Huskies dragging me down the sidewalk and a nosey terrier in tow. No one in their right mind would actually choose to take a leisurely stroll with this rowdy menagerie just for the fun of it.
I informed the man that I was not for hire, straightened out the twisted leashes, and headed back to my car. This was the last time I’d be stumbling down a crowded urban sidewalk behind a pair of retired sled dogs. After much thought and even some tears, I decided to let my 3-time Iditarod lead dog go to live with a more “stable” family – my friends, Sue and Larry. In just one day, she’d be arriving at her new home in southern Indiana.
I have always felt that I owe Pig. She was literally the only dog on my Iditarod team that was capable of leading us the entire way to Nome. She has always been a tiny dog, only weighing 40 lbs, but she had the guts and the heart to just keep going and going.
I had to leave Pig behind when I quit working at Terry Adkins’ Sand Coulee kennel because Terry actually owned her. But when she finally retired at age 10, Terry called and told me I could have her if I still wanted her. And, of course, I did.
Pig has been living with us since last September. She instantly took to the life of an indoor dog. She loves sleeping in late, taking relaxed walks, and snoozing in the slice of afternoon sun that warms the living room carpet.
I love to watch Pig sleep sprawled out on her dog bed, absorbed deep in a dream, her legs and paws twitching. This is the life she deserves.
I want Pig to feel secure and peaceful, but my life lacks routine. Because I travel several months out of the year, I often have to find a dog sitter to care for her while I’m on the road. My other dogs relish a good adventure, but Pig seems to prefer a familiar home.
It’s not easy to find the perfect parents to adopt a 10-year old retired sled dog, so I didn’t even really try that hard; if I let go of my little leader, her new home would have to be just right. But when my friend, Sue, asked if I was looking for a place for Pig, it seemed like an ideal match.
Just three years ago, Sue and her husband, Larry, adopted the tiny runt from the litter of 10 puppies that I named after the First Ladies and last two presidents. Mamie (Eisenhower) was a “special” case - she was scared of almost everything except for other dogs – and I knew my friends had their job cut out for them. But they worked wonders with goofy Mamie, turning the nervous pup into a sweet and healthy adult dog.
Now, Pig has her own home, dog bed, and fenced yard. She has Sue and Larry to love on her, another husky to run with, play with, sleep with.
I could relate to the old man I met on the Chicago street corner; he just wanted someone to walk his dog along the lake for him. You want good things for those you love.
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