"Nous sommes responsables pour ceux qui nous avons apprivoise." - We become responsible forever for what we have tamed. ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Sometimes it takes a tragedy to show us what we (and the people around us) are made of.

A nightmare struck last week that tainted my view of humanity and changed my and my dog Hazel's life. It's not worth mentioning the perpetrator of this violence. If you'd like to read about it, you can here.

In a nutshell, my beloved Hazel, who was born on our property and has lived out her year and a half of life in blissful, pain-free happiness was shot by a .38 caliber handgun by a man who wanted to murder her on Wednesday, 1, 2018 about 6 p.m. The worst thing was, I was not home when this act of violence happened. I was 30 minutes away visiting with my mom.

There is no question his intent was Hazel's death and he took aim at the most vital of her organs. The bullet's trajectory shattered one rib, grazed her heart barely missing the superior vena cava, shot through her lower lobe of her right lung, pierced her diaphragm and landed, finally, in her stomach. Pretty much all vital organs in one shot.

Hazel has been a highly intelligent, sensitive dog from day one. Somehow in a litter of almost all white puppies, born December 8, 2016, Hazel stood out as the only agouti.

Hazel and her sister Stella forming a puppy yin yang

Hazel's parents are two of the best dogs in my kennel: my main leader, Tosh, and quiet but tough-as-nails Fiona.

Naturally pups born from two of my favorite, best dogs of all time would become extra special to me, and Hazel was right from the beginning. Hazel was extremely close to her mom from day one, and still is today.

Me and a six-week-old Hazel

Four-month-old Hazel on a hike at Towner's Woods in Kent

Hazel grew into a tall, leggy, swift and sensitive yearling.

When my very best lead dog and best friend B.B. became sick with a brain tumor, Hazel seemed to know she was hurting and was by her side constantly...

B.B. and Hazel as her 24/7 support buddy

...as if for moral support.

Hazel lived a carefree, blissful, happy existence.

When my rescued cat, Walnut (aka Wally) was stuck in the black walnut tree in our front yard for five days, he met Hazel, and it was instant love. When B.B. died in June, Wally became Hazel's side kick.

Two boneheads, Hazel and Wally (Hazelnut and Walnut) watching me from my living room window the day after B.B. died

Sharing a dog crate

It's clear, Hazel has been something extra special since the beginning. So when this attempted murder happened, it shook me to the core - which is exactly what this man wanted. You see, his issue isn't with Hazel; his issue is, somehow, with me. I've never done a thing to him, my neighbor, and yet, he hates me.

But this is not a post about monsters or negative people who do bad things. This is a post about 149 people - some of them strangers - who do amazing things and turned what could have been a tragedy into an astonishing act of compassion.

When I rushed Hazel to the emergency vet 45 minutes on the other side of the nearest city, I didn't know if she would make it. She was shaking and clearly in shock and had lost a lot of blood.

Hazel the first night in the hospital

I had no idea how extensive the damage was. When Dr. Fox from Metropolitan Veterinary Hospital  walked in after several hours, I could tell by the look on her face it was not good news. 

She proceeded to tell me about all the vital organs that were hit by the bullet, and the extensive exploratory abdominal and thoracic surgery needed to save her life. And then the price tag: $6,000 at least, and it could be more. 

It felt like someone kicked me in the chest. The blow that man so clearly wanted to punch me with had succeeded. I sobbed. I panicked. How on earth could I afford this? How on earth could I afford not to? 

Dr. Fox left to allow me to mull it over. I didn't know how, but suddenly in my heart I knew with absolute certainty giving up was not an option. I knew with absolute certainty that I would find a way to save Hazel's life. 

...to be continued...

"Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart." A.A. Milne

Saturday morning, I opened my mailbox to find a package - something I thought was odd since I didn't recall ordering anything. But that didn't necessarily mean anything because they say the memory is the first to go!

I opened the package to find a small box, like the kind jewelry comes in. Growing more curious and excited, I opened the small box to find another small black box. Yep, it was a jewelry container. I opened that box to find the most thoughtful, beautiful pendant.

Seeing this photo - of her from the day I bought her from Larry and Joann Fortier in 2008 - really took me off guard. Then I took it out of the box and read the engraved words on the back:

"We had a damned good run, girl. 5/4/08 - 6/15/18" from my previous blog post

Since B.B.'s passing, I've honestly tried very hard to not think about it. That first week was so difficult. Trying to explain the death of such a special and beloved dog to someone who doesn't have pets or doesn't get the bond mushers have with their dogs is impossible.

There were reminders everywhere. Alarms on my phone reminding me to administer her medication three times a day. Cans of Taste of the Wild canned food and pureed canned food left over in the refrigerator. Her spot on the sofa, her "blankey" that I used to prop her head up or cover her when she shook, the sound of her nails clicking on the laminate flooring when she would pace in circles for hours - something common with brain tumors. The days immediately following her death were the same as grieving any loss - constant reminders that scratched at the fresh wound of loss.

Her passing was very sudden and unexpected on what was otherwise a good day. She ate well that morning and I had high hopes for her to have a good day. But, about 3 p.m. she started having a grand mal seizure that just would not stop. I panicked. What if I had waited too long to put her down? Had I been selfish, keeping her alive for my benefit? I called my vet, Richardson Animal Hospital, and even though they were booked up, they worked us in. It was time.

I drove the 30 minutes to the vet's office with my mom beside me in the passenger's seat and my daughter in the backseat cradling B.B. who continued to seize relentlessly. I knew this would be her last ride. I felt so helpless watching her body convulse.

When we arrived at the vet's office, one of the techs met us outside and within minutes, administered a deep sedative to knock B.B. out. Finally, after over an hour of convulsions, she settled into a peaceful deep sleep. I said a few words to her and told her it was okay to let go. I wrapped her up in her blanket one last time and carried her into the vet's office. Dr. Stephanie Kaegi's entered and I told her about B.B.'s amazing life.

B.B. was cremated with her blankey.

About a week later, the call came that B.B.'s ashes had come back. I made another 30 minute trip I'd been dreading to pick up what remained of such an amazing athlete and my best friend.

I was pleasantly surprised to find such a beautiful cherry urn held B.B.'s remains with her name engraved in a gold plate.

Shout out to Paws Awhile Pet Memorial Park for doing such a fabulous job of preserving special furry loved ones in such classy, respectful containers.

And as I said, I tried to just ... move on. I definitely stifled expressing my feelings because this loss was so painful, so great.

And then, some anonymous beautiful person sent this necklace as a reminder. Enough time had passed. Had it come immediately after the loss, it would have been painful. But now, its arrival was a timely reminder to grieve properly, to let go but also never forget.

To whomever sent this, thank you from the bottom of my heart. No dog will ever replace B.B. and I'll never ever forget her.

Thank you, anonymous person. Your random kindness, generosity and thoughtfulness left me speechless

Until next time...

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. 

"...and miles to go before I sleep." - Robert Frost

She walks gingerly through the grass, picking her feet up high in a sort of prance, as if the grass contains some substance she detests. She lifts her long slender legs, exposing the shaved ring around her left forearm which betrays her gallant attempt to pretend all is well. That ring tells a story; it hasn't been too long since that horrible night of relentless seizures I thought would kill her. The discharge papers from the hospital said status epilepticus.

That night, as I carried her convulsing body into the hospital, a tech ran toward me.

"Permission to cath?" the tech yelled to me over the chaos. She wanted permission to place an IV line.

Life for Big Brown - B.B. - would change irrevocably that night.

"Yes! Of course!" I yelled back.

We returned home with Keppra, an anti-epileptic medication B.B. would take for the rest of her life, and questions, mainly, why? Why would a 10-year-old dog suddenly have violent grand mal seizures? My suspicions were that things were not good.

Since that night we've returned for more tests and x-rays in a more controlled, less acute and chaotic climate, and my suspicions were confirmed. I've put off writing this post because somehow I thought if I didn't write it, it wouldn't be reality. But it is reality.

B.B. has always been thin, and for a sled dog, a finicky eater. But her weight has held consistent her whole life at 38 pounds. This day, the scales revealed she'd lost five pounds in just 13 days.

Dr. Kaegi met me in the dark x-ray room. 

"Can you see anything?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said as she flipped the lights off "and unfortunately, just as we suspected, it's not good." 

On the screen were two films, one clearly showing B.B.'s ribcage, heart, and trachea illuminated from behind, and the other of her gut. She's had relentless diarrhea since this whole thing started despite my best efforts to alleviate it with over-the-counter remedies, so we elected to take x-rays of her gut to get a clear picture of what's going on inside. 

On the film on the right, in front of the iridescence of florescent light, beside the darkish mass of B.B.'s heart was another, darker mass. This dark mass, a dull cloud in an otherwise normal film, was home to rampant and unchecked cell division. Cells gone to the dark side and run amok. I pictured them as wild, unkempt, unruly children laughing manically. It was undeniable and evident even to an untrained eye.

Cancer.

The film showed three small metastases or "mets" within B.B.'s lungs. About 20 months ago, I discovered a small, quarter-sized lump on her chest. I promptly had it removed within a week of discovery, with clean margins that I'd hoped meant cancer would be gone forever. Breast cancer metastasizes to two places, primarily: the lungs and the brain. 

In the nine days since learning this news, my focus has been on comfort care. We left that office visit with more drugs and probiotics, and I've kept beef, chicken and rice stocked in the kitchen to whet B.B.'s palate. She has good days and not so good days. On good days, she prances in the grass in what's become her trademark high-stepping stride. She eats heartily and goes for car rides. On not-so-good days, she quivers on the sofa, seemingly cold, but simultaneously panting and drooling. On good days, the light is in her eyes and she smiles. On not-so-good days, she seems disoriented, confused, and sleeps a lot.

This last winter, I took B.B. and four other dogs one what would be her last sled run. Of course, I didn't know it at the time. I wonder now if those mutant cells were working to proliferate even then.

As she pranced through the grass today, it struck me that these are the final days of her life. But then I remember what an extraordinary life she's led.

B.B. has become my main education dog, doing presentations and dog sled demos all over Ohio and into Michigan. In March, B.B. attended her biggest school presentation in Logan, Ohio, meeting and greeting about 500 elementary school students as we presented about dog sledding.

B.B. at a library presentation in 2014

With about 500 students of Green Elementary School in Logan, Ohio

My daughter, Sophie, came over from Ohio University to help with the presentation at Green Elementary

I think of all the dogs I've lost over the years for a variety of reasons: Kahlua, Gracie, Foxie, Gwennie, Thelonious, Mojo, Punk, Feist... and all the dogs I've known, trained and worked with - literally hundreds - over the years, and I don't know if I've spent as many solid hours adventuring and working as I have with Big Brown.

She has been with me on almost every single race I've done in my mushing career from triumphs

 and through adversity.

Over the last 10 years, we have spent hundreds and hundreds of hours in the deep recesses of forests in the midwest hiking, camping, running, and racing. She has helped train young leaders...

And shouldered dogs twice her size into turns.

We have grown together, from our humble beginnings...

Punderson Sled Dog Classic. Photo by Nicolas Skidmore

Taquamenon Sled Dog Race. Photo by Sigurd Utych

to larger races...

Midnight Run. Photo by Aladino Mandoli

Tahquamenon Sled Dog Race. Photo by Aladino Mandoli

Midnight Run. Photo by Nace Hagemann

We've run along the shores of Lake Superior...

in fierce blizzards and storms...

And magical places that look like something out of Narnia.

We've run at night...

Copper Dog. Photo by Brockit

We've run alone in the silence only winter can bring.

We've camped out...

And stayed in...

B.B. has met many people, from tiny ones...

To grown ups ...

To people who cared for her...

With one of our favorite members of the Copper Dog veterinary team

We've loved...

And in the end, that's all that matters, right?

Thinking about losing B.B. is so painful I haven't wanted to write about it. I intermittently become emotional at the strangest times. I think of all the adventures I still wanted with her. I owe my entire racing career to this dog... and she is so much more than "just a dog." Mushers spend more one-on-one hours with their dogs than anyone I know. The bond that develops is so, so deep from those hours spent in the woods.

For now, B.B. sleeps contentedly on the sofa as I type. And we wait, cherishing every moment.