Guest Author - Kimi Ross

Nookers died this fall. He wasn’t the smartest dog in the lot. Nor the fastest. He wasn’t particularly good looking either, except for his beautiful blue eyes. I can’t boast of his heroic deeds: he never turned the team around when I fell off the sled, he never prevented me from venturing across thin ice, he never found the way home through whiteout conditions. He’ll never be a legend like Balto or Baldy or Togo.

But I miss him nevertheless.

Chinook, as he was more formally called, came into my life the summer I spent at Iten camp. He was on the team Ed assigned me to use that summer, to travel the three miles across the soggy tundra to the beach at Kobuk Lake, where we had a net set for chum salmon. Every couple of days I would take an eight-dog team to check the net and bring back a load to of fish to cook for dog feed. Nookers was a seasoned race dog: unswerving, steady, unfazed, eager. A perfect wheel dog – and teacher, if truth be told – for a neophyte musher like myself.

He was also the kind of dog who blended in and got along with everyone. So when he retired from racing and Ed was looking for a good home for him, I jumped at the chance. He was a perfect dog to steady young pups in training, to provide some stability and calmness in a sometimes overly rambunctious and energetic team. He was a perfect match for me. Even after I had gained some experience, I appreciated having such a dependable and steadfast worker in harness. Under his quiet influence my younger dogs developed good work habits, because Nookers was as honest as they come – regardless of trail conditions, he always gave his best effort and kept a tight tug, with a cheerful smile on his face. He was not only an honest dog, but an extremely upbeat dog, probably one of the most happy-go-lucky dogs I’ve ever known.

But by the time he was ten he was having a hard time keeping up with the younger, faster dogs, though he still gave a one hundred percent effort. First he started stumbling on rough sections of trail. Then, it started to be obvious that he couldn’t keep the effort up for more than a couple of miles. I let him run loose behind the team, stopping to load him in the sled when he got too tried. He still got excited at hooking up, barking as frantically as the rest and running to his spot when let off his chain. After a while, instead of running to his position to be harnessed, he would run to the sled and climb aboard, not willing to be separated from the team, still desiring the joy of being on the trail. Who could deny his enthusiasm? I let him ride in the sled frequently, and I’m sure several villagers got a chuckle as the dog team driven by the dog in the sled went by.

But as old age crept up on him, he decided that laying out in the bright spring sun or snoring on a blanket in the house through the winter was a perfectly acceptable way of life too. He liked to wander through the spruce trees, sniffing here and there, often seeming to disappear so quickly for an old dog. I started to worry he would stumble and fall in the creek running alongside the house, or wander a little too far and get lost. I watched sadly as his vision and hearing deteriorated and his muscles weakened and the once powerful wheel dog had to be carried up the porch steps every day. He slept almost all the time – except for when he was eating – often snoring quietly or twitching, perhaps reliving his racing days in his dreams. When he was awake, those moments before we went out to feed breakfast or dinner, he came to life, talking and barking as if he was a puppy again, rubbing against our legs, and towards the end, just collapsing to the floor with the pleasure of being petted and scratched and loved. He was just as cheerful as a house dog as he was when he was working, demanding little, but giving much in
his quiet presence.

Nookers’ kennel still sits in the house, empty now. I still think I see him sleeping there sometimes; my eyes water when I remember he’s not. He was neither a spectacular leader nor a dog of legendary status, but something much more: he was an honest dog.