When it’s time

It's always so difficult to know when it's "that time."

I suppose we should be relieved for them. I mean, after all, if only humans could choose to "cross over" so easily or had help to do so.

It was one month ago today that this end-of-life journey started with Big Brown - B.B. - and it has been, to use a cliche, a roller coaster. She has fought so hard, my small but mighty Big Brown, and all of the animals here have rallied around her.

A 4-week-old Big Brown, May 2008

Big Brown the day I purchased her at 10 months old

Big Brown as a silly yearling in 2009

I remember my third Midnight Run. It was my best finish in that race, and we had a flawless 75 or so miles completed when B.B. mistakenly turned "gee" (right) onto a snowmobile trail instead of the race trail. When I turned the team around, B.B. and her long-time rival, Cinder, who was a good 8-10 pounds heavier, found an irresistible moment to call showdown. As I pulled B.B. in lead around, she came face-to-face with this arch rival, and ... let's just say it took me a minute to tear those bitches apart! Hell hath no fury...

That Midnight Run...

Arch rival, Cinder

After tending to a laceration on her right front leg and a nasty cut across the bridge of her nose, B.B. wasn't having any of this “stopping” business. Before I could completely clean the blood off her nose, she pounded her harness, the rest of the team screaming to go. She came roaring up the shoreline of Lake Superior, bloodied but no worse for wear, fighting all the way.

Toward the finish of our best Midnight Run. To the right is Lake Superior as we roll into downtown Marquette, Michigan

As far as the classic things that make sled dogs sled dogs - good feet, voracious appetite - well, B.B. has never cared much for all that. Horrible eater. I swear she'd hardly eat the entire race weekend no matter what race it was. By Sunday, I’d become as neurotic as a first time mom, asking the vet teams to check her for dehydration. She was always fine, and I imagined her rolling her eyes at me like a defiant teenager. Whatever, mom.

Stopping to rest as a yearling with her sister, Ruffian

You couldn't bootie this dog either! Hardest damned dog to get boots on! My friends Kathleen and Mike came over from Minnesota to handle for me that year, and it took all three of us to get boots on B.B.'s small feet at the checkpoint!

Nope. B.B. did things her way, always, but when it came to her job in harness or with children at an event or presentation, she did it exceptionally well.

And when all of the other sled dogs in the team rode in the dog trailer, B.B. always rode in the passenger's seat of my car. With me. Because she was special. She was my bomb-proof lead dog and my best friend.

Such beautiful, almond-shaped eyes

Curled up after a 40 mile run inside my cabin in the Upper Peninsula, January, 2013

Illustrating proper "line out" technique from our training grounds in the Upper Peninsula, October 2012

At camp in the U.P., October 2012

Stretched out on my bed

She has continued with that fighting, true-to-herself spirit through these, her last days. Giving her 1 1/2 tablets of Keppra 3 times a day has been tricky. I've mastered the art of setting alarms on my phone for medication reminders, and Elise has also mastered the complicated art of getting a pill down a doggie throat. B.B. is still finicky, although she has enjoyed the grilled chicken breast strips and hamburger quite a lot!

But tonight, she couldn't keep her dinner down. Drooling, panting wildly and whining, she paced the floors, finally expelling the contents of her stomach. I gave her a small dose of Phenergan. Slowly, she fell into the steady, easy breathing of sleep, finally relaxed.

People seem to think because I have a couple dozen dogs that somehow this loss gets easier, that numbers somehow mean I love each of them a little less. As I sit here tonight, typing through tears, I can say this. is. not. true.

Bracing myself for this loss has shaken me. But, like birth, death is a process.

Surprisingly, this journey with B.B. has reminded me of my father's final few hours of life. As we all gathered 'round my parents’ big bed, watching the rise and fall of my dad’s chest, we moved from the frenzied imminence of expectation to a quiet peaceful acceptance. His final hours held a sort of private sacredness like the quiet and immensely personal intimacy of the first few hours of life. As hard as it was to watch my dad die, I was so deeply honored to share in that intensely personal, private moment with him.

It’s a perfect circle. A closing. In between the place of life and death, right before the light is extinguished in the soul, there is a sort of silence like I’ve never known ... except in one place: winter.
I don’t know how to let her go.
But in that quiet place tonight, I told B.B. it was okay to go.

Rest In Peace, little B.B.

5/4/2008 - 6/15/2018

We had a damned good run, girl. 

CopperDog recap and top 5 mushing myths debunked

I put my sled away today. The dog trailer is cleaned out and put away as well. It would seem the season has come to an end. And I haven't even updated here!

At the very top of a map of Michigan is a wide strip that runs along Lake Superior known as the Upper Peninsula (U.P.). This area of Michigan is confusing to most of the U.S. population and even some Midwesterners. The U.P. is like no other place I've ever been, and has an identity and culture all its own. Separated from lower Michigan by Lake Michigan and the Mackinaw bridge - the "Mighty Mac," - the U.P. is a stones-throw away from Canada. Once, on a pier in Whitefish Point, I walked to the end and my cell phone thought I was in Canada.

If you continue to look at that map of Michigan, and the U.P., you'll notice at the top of that long strip a peninsula, called the Keeweenaw.

Some call Grand Rapids in the lower part of Michigan the "thumb," but the Keeweenaw is the real thumb. Jutting out into Lake Superior, the Keeweenaw is the "thumbs up" of the U.P. - the fat phalange that says "Say yea to the U.P., eh"; the hitchhiker of Lake Superior; the universal symbol of approval. This particular phalange gets quite cold in February. Best bring some mittens.

Snow whirled around in the arctic equivalent of a dust devil on the horizon as we headed across M-28 again for the second time in two weeks. Only this time, it was a balmly 10 degrees. The dogs were tired of riding in their dog boxes - individual wooded dog compartments that, in my case, sit atop a 13-foot flatbed trailer. A traveling dog condo on wheels. We had traveled 582 miles, and still had nearly 200 miles to go to Calumet, the little thumbnail in the thumb of the Keeweenaw, the very tippy-top of the Keeweenaw Peninsula.

Dog races, for me, are a blur of traveling hundreds of miles, scrambling to mandatory musher meetings, gearing up and heading out on the race trail for hours. This particular race - the 40 mile portion of the Copper Dog 150 - is especially blurry. I worked until 5 p.m. Wednesday evening, and left with eight dogs early Thursday morning traveling 760 miles. Our veterinary check was at 11 a.m. on Friday morning, leaving little time for dilly dally. Or sleeping.  Our start time for the race was 8:18 p.m.

It may all sound exhausting from an outsiders perspective. Many have remarked that it sounds "stressful," or "draining." But this is what gives me energy, fills me up and brings me joy. Which got me to thinkin'...

As I drove across the U.P., I thought of all of the things others have said to me about this sport. These mushing myths are so common, I can't begin to recount how many times I've heard them. Aside from debunking the most common myth -- that sled dogs are all Siberian huskies (that only happens in Disney films) -- I thought I'd set the record straight about some of the other myths I hear so often. Here goes.

5. "Do you ever sleep?" I seem to hear this often. I think it's because most of the races I run are at night. Um, yes I sleep. In fact, I guard my sleep time like a proverbial mother bear guards her cubs. And while it might be true that mushers have a higher tolerance for functioning without regular sleep, most mushers I know make up for the sleep they don't get when they're not racing. I prefer running dogs at night, though on this particular race last weekend, my headlamp malfunctioned. Not to worry: mushers are required to carry a spare as part of their "mandatory gear" for just such an occasion. Only my spare was a cheap-o 80 lumen dim flicker I'd bought at a local feed store for $15. Luckily, unlike the Jack Pine two weeks earlier, we ran under the light of a perfect 3/4 moon and clear, star-filled U.P. sky. But I never want to run a race in the dark again! I've already purchased a new headlamp, and I am catching up on sleep - hence the slow blog post.

4. "Your dogs must love the cold!" While it is true that Alaskan huskies are made for cold weather, not all of them are equipped to run headlong into a blizzard at 30 below. Like people, their coats vary; some of them are shorter coated, have less body fat or just prone to being chilled. In fact, we mushers carry just about as much gear to protect our dogs from the cold and wind as we do for ourselves. We slather goop onto our dog's paw pads and cover their feet with booties to protect them from ice and snow. During the race this past weekend, I ran two of my dogs in custom-made jackets to protect them from the temperatures. And, when it gets really cold, mushers have special covers made to protect a dog's "private parts" from frostbite.

3. "I expected your dogs to be bigger." This is probably the number one thing I hear at sled dog demonstrations, races and from non-mushers. I can't speak for other musher's teams, and the sizes of Alaskan huskies varies, but, in general, the average size of my males is about 55 pounds and 45 for the females. My main leader, Big Brown, is 37 pounds. The dogs were bred for speed and endurance, and the fact is, Malamutes are pretty darned slow! My typical response to this comment is "you don't see many large marathon runners, do ya!"

My tiny main leader, Big Brown, on my bed

2. "You must love this weather!" a coworker said to me as several more inches of snow fell the week before we left for the race. My retort is always the same. There is a Swedish saying "there is no bad weather, only bad clothing." 

Taken during the "storm Neptune" a few weeks ago, do I look thrilled? No. 

Mushers have no higher tolerance to cold than anyone else. And, with back problems and a family history of Rheumatoid arthritis, I feel the cold, lemme tell ya! When you go swimming, you dress appropriately, right? Well, the same is true for mushers - or any other winter athlete. If you're going to spend hours outside in the cold, you dress appropriately. We invest in good gear, and that usually starts with excellent base layers, wool socks, winter parkas and snow pants specifically made to protect against severe winter cold.

So many people seem to shut themselves off to the unique beauty, awesome silence and pristine views of winter. As we ran the last 15 miles of the race last weekend, I turned my headlamp off (trying to reserve some of the battery). Shadows danced with us across the snow-covered forest and on as we ran along a frozen lake. The moon seemed to reflect off of each tiny crystalline snowflake that rolled on into the distance as each tree, bush and rock created long shadows across the white tundra. I thought about how many would never see that beauty simply because they shield themselves off from winter. I want to be open to take in all of life and what it has to show me. In all seasons.

1. "What kind of dogs are those?" This is, by far, the number one remark I hear. Numero uno. The most common myth - that all sled dogs are fuzzy, blue-eyed beasts - is one propagated by Disney. This is not to say that there aren't Siberian huskies at sled dog races; there are. But the more common type of dog is the Alaskan husky, a "mutt" if I'm being honest. Alaskan huskies are not an AKC registered breed. But they have pedigrees carefully traced back to some key recognized players in the sport of dog mushing: Roxy Wright-Champaigne, Doug Swingley, Lance Mackey, Mitch Seavey. Some Alaskans have blue eyes, but some have brown or even gray and gold colored eyes. Some Alaskans have fluffy gray coats, but others have shorter coats that are black, brown, spotted, or any variation or combination in between. Alaskan huskies are a varied breed.

So, to recap, we placed 10th in the Jack Pine in a veritable blizzard the likes of which I've never run dogs in. We placed 14th out of 21 in the Copper Dog in a very fast field of teams. Considering I didn't think I would be able to race at all this season, I am quite pleased with the fact that we were able to manage two races and place solidly in the middle-of-the-pack.

That's a wrap on the 2014-2015 season! Stay tuned for puppy harness breaking! And as always...

Mid-fall updates: "Watch out where the huskies go, and don't you eat that yellow snow..."

Several thoughts come to mind this time of year regarding training. One, and I've said this before, November is "make it or break it" month as far as training. The runs get longer, the temps get colder (at the time of this writing, it is like full-blown January instead of mid-November), and this is the time when running dogs isn't necessarily always fun. Today, we did a touch over 15 miles, and it was 24 blowing, blustery degrees with six inches of fresh, heavy snow.

Dreamed I was an Eskimo
Frozen wind began to blow...

The team stopped along one of the snow-covered trails we run on 

Training was compromised somewhat during October because of Mojo and Feist contracting parvo; my days were consumed with caring for them. We are subsequently behind a bit on miles to where I would like to be. But we are hitting it hard again with runs every other day and the dogs are looking strong. 

Under my boots 'n around my toe
Frost had bit the ground below

A panoramic of my favorite spot on our training trails

This is also the time of year to count our blessings, and I count seven of them every day: their names are Buddha, Bonanza, Blaze, Cisco (The Cisco Kid), Voodoo, Halo, and Mirage. 

Elise and Halo

Sophie and Voodoo

The rest of the puppies are thriving and growing like crazy. I cannot wait to harness break them in the spring. They will no doubt bring the kennel into a new level of competitiveness in the future.

Plans are underway for the 2014/2015 racing season. They are here. If you would like to sponsor a puppy or an active member of the race team, please throw us a bone. We are currently actively looking for sponsors for this season.

As always...

....and watch out for the yellow snow

And then there were seven

“Raw love, like raw heartache, could blindside you.” Jodi Picoult

I hadn't had a litter of puppies for three years when Cinder's litter was planned, and after waiting that long to have a litter, I was beyond excited to welcome them into the world. Watching them come into the world, take their first breath and blossom into unique creatures is giving birth to a dream. I wanted to protect them all, keep them safe, shelter them. But I couldn't.

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Never was a dog as aptly named as Feist. We called her Feisty girl, and her name came quite naturally when,  at one week of age, I picked her up and she growled at me. Click the video below to watch.



Later on, when her eyes were barely open at ten-days old, I carried her out to the big dog yard to begin acclimating the puppies to the sounds and smells of the kennel. As the adult dogs barked excitedly, tiny Feist growled at them, apparently unaware of her size. She was the female runt, so tiny, but her attitude was big. She had so much personality. When the other puppies toppled over her, she got up and barked at them angrily, as if to say, "Hey! Back off!"

Feist at two weeks

Feist at four weeks

Feist at eight weeks

It was from one of these episodes that Feist emerged from the puppy play pile limping one day, right around the time Mojo was becoming sick but before we knew what he had. I brought her in the house but tried to isolate her to my bedroom, away from Mojo who was in the living room. I rubbed her shoulder with liniment like a big sled dog at a race. She seemed to love being bedroom puppy.

Little Feist resting on my bed

She learned lots of things, like what a computer was...

Feist sitting at my desk with me

... how to snuggle

Cozied up on my bed

...and how to pass time in close quarters with her people.

Feist and Elise playing

She missed her siblings, but I figured in just a few days, she would be outside with them again.

When we received the diagnosis of parvo with Mojo, Feist had already come in contact with the virus through our clothes. I braced myself for the worst when he died. She seemed to recover from the shoulder injury and was playing and doing well, when she suddenly vomited. My heart dropped to my stomach.

Feisty girl

Without skipping a beat, I kicked medication into gear, starting subcutaneous fluids, Amoxicillin and Metronidozole. I contacted my family vet and we made a trip in again, this time for Reglan, an anti-nausea drug. She weighed 9 pounds and 14 ounces. I was hopeful. We were going to beat this together. Feist was strong. She was Feist, after all. She was far healthier than Mojo was when he contracted parvo, and she was a fighter.

Feist received about 50 ml of subq fluids every 12 hours to prevent dehydration

We fought hard together for eight days, through Feist's vomiting and horrendous diarrhea. I stayed up with her 'round the clock because, luckily, I was between terms at the college and had nothing but Feist to care for. I sunk everything I had into her. We slept together for two solid weeks.

And then, finally, the puking stopped. And slowly, the diarrhea stopped. Her appetite returned. I was overjoyed. But then, joy turned to panic when her temperature soared to 105.1. A temp of 106 can have fatal effects for dogs. Dogs release body heat in two ways: panting, and through their paw pads. I put her in a tub of cool water just over her ankles to attempt to quell the scorching fever; she lapped up water heartily from the tap. I rubbed alcohol on her paw pads. I called the vet. They recommended 1/2 of a baby aspirin, which I gave to Feist. Her appetite left as surely as it had returned.

Then slowly it seemed we rounded another corner. Her temperature gradually lowered to 103, then 102. Her appetite returned. She ate; she drank. She even wagged her tail at me. Again, I was elated. Only I noticed her laboring to breathe. I thought she possibly had developed aspirate pneumonia from the times I had forced her to drink with a syringe. I called my vet again.

On Monday afternoon, Feist and I again drove to the vet, but she was really laboring to breathe. She groaned when I touched her, and even whined when I picked her up. I grew very concerned. It didn't occur to me that our ride to the vet might not end well.

Feist was down two pounds. My vet listened carefully to her breathing through a stethoscope. She recommended a chest x-ray and a blood draw to check her white count levels. I opted to start with the blood draw.

I waited just a few minutes in the room with Feist, watching her breathe, her eyes sunk in, and a slow realization began to take over me. Feist may not leave.

The doctor returned to tell me shocking news. Feist's white blood count was 0.01. I shook my head in disbelief. She was doing better! She ate and drank well just the day before. How could this be?

Mojo's white count was 2 when he died; Feist's was below that, and she was still fighting. But her little body could not fight anymore. It had used all of its limited resources and there was nothing left. My vet said even if they kept her and gave her IV antibiotics, her expectancy of recovering was 1% and she may need a blood transfusion. Faced with this prognosis, I made the extremely difficult decision to have my vet end her suffering.

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How can such a small creature teach me so much? About fighting; about loving. What are the lessons here? I think there are many.

In the time since Mojo was first diagnosed with parvo, I have read a lot about this insidious virus. I wanted to be one of those "My dog beat parvo" stories. But not all stories have a happy ending.

I have learned a lot from talking with others who have experienced this devastating virus too. And what I know is this:

1. It is hearty. It can live in soil for months or even years, and despite vaccinations, some dogs can contract the virus. My puppies had two vaccinations when they contracted it.
2. It is sneaky. Feist made a bold move into what looked like recovery, only to slump deeper into the illness in a way that left me feeling raw, helpless and debilitatingly sad. According to my vet, this is common with parvo. Riding the emotional highs and lows with Feist was exhausting. 
3. I can't stress this enough: it is hearty. And it is crafty. When Feist showed signs of the virus, I received a very long email from mushing friend Roy Smith and detailed instructions from my vet about decontamination. 
• The only thing that can kill parvo that is reasonably priced is bleach: 1 cup per 1 gallon of hot water. In the week that Feist fought this virus, I decontaminated every solid surface in my kennel with this solution: bowls, buckets, poop scoop; I scrubbed the puppy pen, which is lined with landscape bricks, four times with hot bleach water. 
• Pay attention to your clothes! We bleached the bottoms of all of our shoes. And I wore "parvo" clothes with Feist and "non-parvo clothes" out into the kennels. I scrubbed my hands AND face when moving from contact with Feist to contact with the rest of the kennel. These are precautions I DIDN'T take when Mojo was first in the house because I didn't know what we were dealing with. 

Parvo is something I wouldn't wish on anyone. The "Ebola" of the dog world, it virtually eats away at the gastrointestinal tract until it becomes liquefied. Its victim, gripped with nausea, cannot keep anything down; vomiting and extreme, often bloody diarrhea cause rapid dehydration and anemia. And despite subq fluids, rapid dehydration is almost inevitable. As my vet explained, the parvo strips the GI track to such a degree that liquid can leak into the body, filling the lungs, surrounding the heart, and rendering the victim potentially septic. This is what she suspected happened to Feist, and why she was laboring to breathe.

I thought Feist was healthier than Mojo. I thought I had all of the medications and IV fluids, we had a jump on fighting the virus, and I was armed with more knowledge. I thought we could beat it. I thought "This is Feisty girl! The girl who growled at the adult dogs in the dog lot when she was 10 days old! If anyone can beat this, Feist can!"

The kennel lost a 12 week old champion yesterday. I miss her so, so much, and I have cried from grief about not only the loss of Feist, but the loss, now, of two of my pups, and just how very scary this virus is.

I am devastated. Perhaps it is because she slept with me every night, in the nook of my shoulder and neck, for two weeks, but I am taking her death very hard. She seemed to constantly want to be near me in those final days. Some might say "Jeez, it's only a pup," or "it's only a dog" or "it's only..." But, this has completely blindsided me.

Feist, snuggled in my shoulder. This is where she liked to sleep. 

Every day when I go out to the puppy pen to the seven other crazy, healthy monsters, I thank God for them and all of their craziness, for that's how puppies are supposed to be.

I will never, ever forget my Feisty girl. I love you Feist.

For Feist: July 28, 2014 - October 20, 2014

Puppy Update

I'm beginning to think the Ohio tourism slogan "so much to discover!" was written with puppies and not Ohio in mind. The puppies - a.k.a. the "little monsters" - were seven weeks old this week and have settled into their home outside in their own private kennel run with mama, Cinder. Every day they spend hours outside of the dog kennel ...discovering. And it seems, like some fish and reptiles do, the puppies have also grown tremendously to adapt to their bigger space.

Halo, also sleeping in the dirt under the propane tank...

And they are increasingly adventurous. On our daily puppy outings at the ranch, they venture around the property, wagging at the other dogs...

Buddha brazenly barks at kennel patriarch, Yeti

...running along the puppy paths ... 

Elise: official puppy trainer/herder

and making other discoveries like garden hoses...

Halo and the garden hose

...giant holes dug by the other dogs out of summer boredom ...

Buddha and Halo rest inside one of Tosh's giant excavation projects

...chickens...

"Come here, chicken!"

...and even coffee! 

Blaze slurping from my coffee mug

They have discovered that pulling on your sister's tail is great fun....

BIG BROTHERS! UGH!

...and how to annoy your very big brothers...

Three-year-old, Tosh, rolls his eyes at me as if to say, "mom, can you make the toddlers go away?"

...and the joys of running...

Cisco 

There are more puppy portraits on the Diamond Dogs Facebook Page

Sweet dreams ....

and, as always...