In Texas this year the temperature ranged from nearly 80 to 40, and although one morning my dad swore it was below freezing outside I spent the entire holiday encountering ice only in tall glasses of southern iced tea. While we were gone, snow continued to accumulate back in Fairbanks. And just before I boarded the plane for the return trip, the temperature at home started to drop. And drop.
It didn't take long to remember that hadn't packed gloves or a coat, waltzing out of Fairbanks in tennis shoes and a light fleece. By the time my flight landed after midnight on Thursday, thermometers around town were registering somewhere in the negative thirty to thirty five range. The friend who picked me up from the airport generously brought an extra parka of hers, but it only took the quick run from the doors of the terminal to her truck for my hands to go numb. Time for some very intentional re-acclimatization.
The dogs were happy to get some love and attention that night, but Pico seemed oddly unenthusiastic. He wasn't interested in a good ear scratch or belly rub, and lay down on the couch the minute he was let in instead of getting constantly underfoot in our tiny house as I unpacked and got reoriented. I was so tired after twelve hours of travel, however, that I just let him be and went to bed. I woke from a dead sleep an hour later to that rhythmic, almost hollow mechanical sound that all dog owners know and dread - the sound of a dog getting ready to vomit. And Pico did so, about every half hour, in every conceivable spot both upstairs and down, until nine the next morning. Ah, welcome home.
I waited till a reasonable hour before calling the house sitter, but she assured me that he'd eaten a full meal the night I arrived, played with her for a while after dinner and had shown no signs of odd behavior or illness when she last saw him. All the other dogs looked great - happy, healthy and ready for some trail time. But Pico refused to eat breakfast or any of the people-food treats I tried to tempt him with and would hardly get up unless forced. I checked him for signs of shock and listened to his belly hoping for a hint, but to no avail. Cleaning up after his night of gastric over-activity, I noticed that more than one pile contained a little too much pink froth for my tastes. My paranoia for dog disaster was running pretty high to begin with, since a good friend lost her otherwise young, healthy lab quite suddenly to an bowel obstruction this fall. And we were heading into a long weekend. My pup didn't look too sick yet, but he has never in his three years with us refused food. I took a deep breath and called our vet.
They got me in within the hour, but after his exam the vet felt we should wait the weekend out. I felt a little silly - I normally would have sat on a vomiting dog for much longer, but circumstances being what they were I didn't feel like I could make that call. He sent us home with an anti-emetic, some doggie-nexium and his cell phone number.
While we were in town, the temperature had peeked up above thirty below. I decided it was plenty warm enough - and a beautiful day - to take the dogs for a little shake-out run. I made Pico a chickeny rice mush which he wouldn't even sniff, then kenneled him inside, made a nice warm slop snack for the team to enjoy when we returned, bundled up and started digging the sled out from under two weeks of intermittent snow. I decided to take all seven dogs, since as far as I know none of Norrin's PTSD triggers are on this particular trail from the house and our last run had been relatively tangle free. I added an extra length of gang-line, tug and neck line for him just in front of the wheel dogs and got everyone harnessed and ready to go.
The dogs were yelping and yipping with excitement, Norrin performing his classic half-gainer spins on the end of his chain. He was so enthusiastic that I decided to go ahead and put his harness on at the same time as everyone else. Earlier this fall, I'd bought him a brand new harness at Cold Spot. I harnessed him for a bikejor outing as soon as we got home, and he had chewed through the X-strap before I even knew he could reach it with his teeth. After I had a chance to calm down, I fixed it with some heavy duty fishing line, a tapestry needle and some hockey tape and subsequently never put his harness on until I was ready to walk him to the line and hook him in.
Today, however, I was sure his focus on hook-up would prevent a repeat performance. After all, his previous harness destruction had been way back in October. But apparently old habits die hard, even in sled dogs. I hooked Reese up front, and was halfway to the line with Pepper when I saw Norrin out of the corner of my eye, bent in the middle and working out his excitement on the webbing. I yelled and let Pepper go, sprinting for Norrin's circle. It wasn't until I was on top of him that he let go, and the damage was quite thoroughly already done. I took off the harness, trying hard to stay calm and not let my frustration and anger (as much at myself for letting down my guard against a known issue) come out on Norrin. As calm as I tried to be, however, he knew I was upset and lay down on his belly as if trying to sink into the snow. I threw his harness back towards he house, put Pepper and Reese back and took the extra gang line back off the sled. Norrin wasn't going anywhere until I fixed his harness. He had chewed himself out of a run.
That minor disaster over with, hook up went quickly and the dogs tore out of the yard with all the pent up energy of the last two weeks. They didn't tear for long, though, because two weeks of snow was blocking their previously well packed trail out from the house. The plowed onward, however, and we were out to the road and then onto the trail system without a hitch.
Just before the Rosie Creek crossing, I saw a couple of loose black dogs through the trees. I yelled "TRAIL" as loud as I could to warn their people (if there were any) that someone was coming. Apparently, they didn't hear me because when we came flying around the corner a woman threw up her hands and screamed. Her two kids both jumped off the trail and I slammed on the brake. She made a dive for one of the two loose dogs, and the other ran straight for Billie and Reese, stopping between them for a good butt-sniff. There was nothing I could do but stand there, holding the team back while one of the kids came and retrieved their dog. As soon as the dog was out of the way, I called my dogs to onby and without a sideways glance they headed on down the trail as if nothing had happened. I was beaming.
Unfortunately, I was a little too focused on being proud of them and didn't notice that they were pulling me onto very slick refrozen overflow that had crept up the trail in our absence. We weren't ten feet past the little family before I was sprawled out on the ice, elbow throbbing, trying to scramble and right the sled. Always make a memorable first impression, I guess. Now my face was burning with embarrassment instead of pride, but it was cold enough that my blush didn't last long either.
Just past Rosie Creek, Reese started doing his little turn-around dance. I tried telling him NO, and then encouraging and peddling hard, which seemed to stop him in Goldstream earlier in the month. But for some reason he really, really wanted to turn around. Right there, right then. This was, incidentally, the same spot we'd had issues in on a previous run this way where I ended up switching him out with Norrin when he absolutely refused to move forward. On our run just before the trip, though, he had lead through the section of trail without any significant hesitation. I was mystified as what was triggering this urgency, and his hopping, pausing and half-turning lasted for nearly a quarter mile. He even stopped dead in the trail at one point, nearly causing a tangle and confusing the heck out of Billie who was still trying his best to keep his tug tight. But at some point with no help from me (that I could tell) whatever itch got into his brain passed, and suddenly we were running full tilt again with tight tugs and noses ahead.
The rest of the run was without further incident. Now that we'd been around this loop once and I know where the intersections are, I made an extra effort to anticipate and call turns a little earlier. In doing so, we totally avoided wrapping around the lone little birch at the T-intersection towards the end. Nobody even glanced to the right as we made the turn. The winding section of overflowed trail was just as slick heading back, but this time I was prepared for it and managed to keep my feet on the runners. Barely.
Back home, I saw that the temperature was sitting at about twenty eight below for our run. I was toasty, but I knew my toes would have gotten cold if we'd been out much longer. My coveted Neos Overboots had come in before we left, but I'd somehow misjudged the sizing and had to send them to be exchanged. The new ones haven't yet arrived, so I was stuck with my less-and-less-effective Baffins for this run.
The lesson that keeps being driven home for me this winter is that the weatherman will break your heart, every time. The last day of 2011 was supposed to be the coldest of the snap. It was reasonably cold - about thirty five below - and with so much to deal with after travel (wood needs chopping, straw needs distributing, dog snacks need making, bags need unpacking) and Pico still only eating a bite of food here and there with not a tail wag to be coaxed out of him (and, I discovered, no hot water to be had after we hit thirty below) I decided not to run the dogs on New Year's Eve. New Year's Day was supposed to be warmer - similar temperatures to Friday's run - and I figured we'd do a nice long romp exploring some of the westward trails to celebrate the new year. I brought Xtra inside, and she spent the day snoring with startling volume and soaking up heat from the woodstove.
Instead, the new year dawned with the thermometer pointed down below the negative forty mark. I went to the window every half hour all morning, but it never budged. Sunrise was beautiful, pink-and-blue light fracturing in the crystalline air, flakes of moisture suspended, dancing in the stillness, refracting light and giving an ethereal quality to everything through the windows. But the air itself was searing cold. I fired up the woodstove, fed dogs and started instead on endless projects that always need doing while constantly checking the thermometer. But the day dawned and stayed clear, and the temperature didn't start rising until long after nightfall.
Pico's status did shift, however. New Year's morning he scarfed every kibble he could find like the starving dog he pretends to be and brought me his ball, tail wagging, as soon as I came in from the yard. His sudden and thorough recovery was a complete relief.
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