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“Here
Ice Cream Bar, here Ice Cream Bar”
by
Robert Lewis Knecht
During
the many years of dreaming about and planning my walk across North
America (long before it turned into the present project), I never had
any plans to add a dog to my adventure.
Even though my family had several German Shepherds and a number
of cats when I was a kid, personally, I have always been a cat person.
And with my career, cats are a lot easier to care for.
In late May, my
partners Jamie and Huey Allen (bless their hearts) posed their concern
for my mental health and physical protection during the trip.
“You know,” Huey said, “You’re gonna be a long ways out
there at some points, and there is not going to be anybody to talk to.
It’s not like you can just pick up the phone and call us.”
Of course, I was very aware of this, and in truth, it was one of
the many reasons I wanted to do such a long trip – to push myself to
my limits mentally and physically.
I had also had the feeling for a very long time that a dog would
“adopt” me along the way.
Now, you have to know
Huey to understand how unusual it was for me to have such a conversation
with him. Huey is the kind
of fellow who thinks a lot, and says very little – stoic would best
describe him. He is the
very antithesis of Jamie; not that she doesn’t think a lot, too, but
Jamie also likes to talk – a lot.
Then Huey brought up
what many others have expressed concern over.
“And when you get up north, you are going to have to deal with
wildlife,” he said. And I
thought, Here we go again. “A
dog could be a lifesaver for you,” he concluded.
Well, I had already given that consideration, too.
And my logic has always been, others have made long treks through
the wilderness without a pet companion.
They’ve had a few scares but survived.
(Of course, there are those who haven’t survived, too!)
Beside, I was planning to carry a firearm when I had to –
especially in the Arctic as protection from polar bears.
I also didn’t want the logistical nightmare of adding a dog.
Nor did I want to have the responsibility of taking care of it
when I returned.
So I thought about
their suggestion for about a week.
“Think, think . . . think . . . think.”
And the thought began
to grow on me. So on June 6th
I called Jamie and told her I would consider it if we could find the
right dog. She suggested
the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region was a good place to start. So I went down there and started looking, asking questions
and researching – in that order.
I needed a dog that could handle heat and humidity as well as sub
zero temperatures. It also
had to be good tempered around people, especially kids.
But perhaps the most important part, it had to survive walking
over 7,500 miles in 400 days. And
that’s a lot of doggy steps.
Jamie joined me at
the Humane Society and we found the staff to be extremely helpful –
once we got past their initial wide-eyed shock at my reason for wanting
a dog.
After some time,
Jamie and I narrowed it down to three breeds: German Shepherds, Alaskan
Malamutes or Siberian huskies. We
took a walk around the kennels together and I showed her the dogs I had
noticed before she arrived; several Shepherds and a couple of huskies.
All but one of the
huskies we felt were just too old, considering that by the time I reached
Point Barrow, the dog would be at least a year and a half older.
And the Shepherds just didn’t connect with me in particular.
Then there was the one husky that sat patiently in her kennel and
stared at me every time we came past. She had arrived that morning and
her kennel tag said, “Waiting for my owner.”
But no matter how much pleading I did (looking back, it is
embarrassing), the staff politely insisted that I couldn’t see her
until her six days were up. If
in six days she wasn’t claimed, I could get in line outside on the
morning of the seventh day and get a chance to meet her face-to-face.
I had a pretty calm
feeling that she would be there on the seventh day.
Even so, I called almost everyday to check if she had been
claimed. On the days I
didn’t call, I stopped by. And
each time I stopped by she was there, quietly staring back at me.
On the sixth day she
was still there, so I did a little doggy dance and went on a mini
shopping spree at Petco. In
fact, I was so sure she would not be claimed that evening, I even bought
An Owner’s Guide to The Siberian husky.
Reading that night I
began to realize that I was going to have my hands full with this breed
of a dog – but there was no more perfect a breed for the journey
ahead.
Bred for 3000 years
by the Chukchis of northern Siberia, the husky is small, yet large
enough to not look like a chew toy to bigger dogs. They have a great metabolism so they consume less food than
other breeds, yet still maintain tremendous strength (especially to
carry their own food). And
they have great social skills. (I
would later find out that huskies are great “chick magnets,” too.)
On June 12th,
I got to the Humane Society 45 minutes before they opened, and there
were still three groups of people ahead of me.
This put a lump in my stomach as I began to wonder (as I am sure
the others were, too) if we were all there after the same dog.
So, I sat down on the pavement, leaned against one of the
pillars, and casually began to strike up conversations with the others
to see why they were in line SO EARLY!
As opening time grew
closer, MORE people began to show up, and some even placed themselves
next to the door! Now over
the years, I have noticed that my need for confrontation has decreased
in direct proportion to my increase in age.
However, on the morning of the 12th, I found myself in
a serious conversation with myself on how I would handle those who
seemed to be pushing ahead of those of us who were first in line.
After another session of self-talk I
decided to use a very effective technique I had developed along time ago
for confrontations. This
largely consisted of a lot of sheepish grins as I excused myself up to
the front of the line, “Excuse me (grin), excuse me (grin) . . . sorry
about that, er, excuse me – thank you (grunt).”
About the time the doors opened, Jamie
showed up. Of course, she
wasn’t intimidated at all. She just pushed her way up to me and said, “Hi!
Boy, there’s a lot of people here, huh?”
After registering, a
very nice lady showed us down the hall to a quiet waiting room.
There we sat and I was amazed that Jamie wasn’t talking, until
I looked over and noticed that she was biting her bottom lip and
fidgeting with a camcorder that she had brought.
(This was going to be an odd experience for me, being in front of
the camera, instead of my usual place behind or operating the camera.)
The moments ticked
away, and my heart started to pound when I heard the sounds of a dog
coming down the inside hallway. “Whoa!
Easy, girl! Whoa!
You’re just a bundle of energy, aren’t you? WHOA!” All set
against the sounds of claws scrambling on a tile floor and doggy huffing
and puffing. In fact, this
didn’t sound like the calm and patient dog I had seen in kennel number
37. Rather is sounded like
the Iditarod had come to Colorado Springs.
“Whoagirl! Easythere!”
Silence . . .
Then the door flew
open and I was hit with 43 pounds of Siberian husky – tongue first.
Next, Jamie’s camera was slobbered.
Then me. Then the
handler. Then Jamie, and so on for the next 15 minutes.
I think about the only thing I heard Jamie say during that time
was “Goodness!” as she tried to keep her camera on the action.
In fact, I am sure that is all she said – at least 30 times –
in between giggles and trying to stay on her feet.
Then someone
“accidentally” opened the main visiting room door and the “ball of
energy” was now gone like a shot on her own voyage of discovery down
the hall and around the corner. (I
am not at liberty to disclose who opened the door, but his initials are
Robert Lewis Knecht.) I
then got the distinct feeling that this behavior might have been what
landed her in the pound in the first place.
At this time, a
temporary question entered my mind:
How does one call a dog that was abandoned and hadn’t been
named yet?
I
can’t repeat the words I was thinking at the time, but I can tell you
that they were drowned out by my father screaming in my ear. Which was
quite peculiar since he lives 2,000 miles away in Key Largo, and he
hasn’t yelled at me like that since I was, say, oh, um, 24 or so . . .
.
By the time I had
rounded two corners (wheezing, no less), I found that she had introduced
herself to every human being at the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak
Region and was being held by a gracious couple – who were looking for
a cat. I then had two
thoughts: How many times will we have to do this over the next 7,500
miles? And, that I knew I
had found the perfect ambassador for Expedition: North America – tongue
and all.
Actually,
there were three thoughts, the third one being, Boy, I need to get some
obedience training, FAST!
Of course, the moment
“Come here, Dog!” (incidentally, those are not the words I was
thinking when she bolted) and I left the Humane Society and climbed into
my truck, I began to experience for the first time what it was like to
be a Daddy.
“Um,
sit." (pant, pant) "Hey,
sit." (pant slobber,
slobber) "YO! Sit!"
(husky grin, slobber, slobber – lick on the face)
"C’mon, won’t you sit?"
(sniff,
pant, spin in circles on seat)
"I
SAID SIT!" (husky sneeze)
"Ok, you’re gonna have to learn the hard way, aren’t you?
Now put on you’re seat belt!”
That was the first four miles over to Jamie and Huey’s home.
And as we stopped at our first red light, a silver gray blur of ears, fur
and feet tumbled onto the floorboard.
“See?
I told you to sit!”
If course, the
“parent thing” continued at Cook Veterinary Hospital.
I soon found out that I had a healthy 43 pound Siberian husky in
my stead. She we a perfect
lady as she was brought up to date on her vaccinations.
I also had her inoculated against the water-borne parasite
Giardia, so she could drink stream water without worry of getting sick.
Then there was
obedience training. Jamie
quickly set me up with the Northwest Dog Training folks who use the
“click and treat” method of training.
Rather than using a dog’s bad behavior to train, the C&T
method rewards the animal for positive behavior, leaving (in theory) no
desire for bad behavior. For
Klondike, it turned learning into a game, rather than a chore.
For me, it meant I was able to keep her attention constructively
for more than five minutes.
And as the days
progressed, I found that the thickness of my wallet decreased in direct
proportion to the number of places we visited on “Come here,
Dog’s!” behalf.
One of the frustrating parts of parenthood
was coming up with a name. It
took over two weeks and three “test” names to settle on Klondike.
Little did I realize, though, that by giving her such a name, I
had just condemned my dog to a life of jokers trying to be funny, much
like I had endured as a kid with a last name that’s pronounced
“connect,” as in “connect the dots,” or “Hey, disconnect!”
Get the picture?
Of
course, leave it to my pal and corporate video voice-over guy, Tom
Villagrana, to point this out. When
I proudly introduced the two, he said, “Klondike, eh?” a sly grin
sliding across his lips. “Let’s try this, Here Ice Cream Bar, here Ice Cream
Bar.”
It
has been three months since that day in the kennel.
During the first three weeks, there were several times that I
seriously questioned Huey’s wisdom – and my sanity.
And there are still days that Klondike tests my Alpha dog status
in the “pack.”
You
see, Siberian huskies are not for everyone.
They require a lot more attention, and more specialized handling,
than most other canine breeds. If
this is not taken into consideration, one’s home will often fall
victim to a husky’s penchant for discovering new and exciting ways to burn energy
– I speak from experience.
For
a thousand years before the birth of Christ, this dog has been bred to
be an integral part of a culture that survived in one of the harshest
environments on this planet. They
have been bred to run 75 to 100 miles per day for many days at a time.
They have been bred to consume smaller amounts of food yet still
maintain a high level of energy. They
have been bred to be independent thinkers beyond most other breeds
because they have always been entrusted with their mushers’ lives;
their superior canine senses knowing that sometimes following a
musher’s command to go left instead of right would result in disaster.
Quite simply, they have been bred to survive comfortably in a
world far removed from our urban culture.
Where the price for a bad decision very possibly could be one’s
own life.
As
I got to know Klondike and talk with other husky owners, I came to
realize that she and I were much the same in our beliefs.
For I had started to learn at the age of three or four that the
results of my actions could hold serious consequences.
Growing
up in a professional acrobatic family, I quickly learned that a mistake
could cause a lot of pain in the form of bruises or broken bones.
And later, as a firefighter, I saw that a mistake could get
myself or my partner burned, or worse yet, my entire engine company
killed. In fact, I have
often wondered if our work ethics and quality standards as a nation
might be higher if the consequences of our actions resulted in pain or
sudden death. As a video
producer plagued by glitches in computer editing systems, many a time
have I daydreamed of holding a baseball bat next to a software
developer’s head saying, “Are you sure that you have tried as
hard as you can to work all the bugs out of this system before you sell
it to me?”
As
soon as I realized what kind of a mind I was dealing with in my new
friend, I began to understand that I had to prove my worthiness to her
as a partner.
As I write this, she
has just entered one of her two annual sheds and every now and then a
tuft of her fur wafts across my keyboard, evidence that she is asleep
beneath my feet. Finally
worn out from an afternoon romp in “Dog Disney Land” at Bear Creek
Park, I can now get some peace to write.
For
many years this project was just a personal dream.
Then came the time that my “dream” started to grow into what
it is today. And the
departure date suddenly was 18 months away.
Then 12 months. Then
six months.
Now
it is less than one month.
For the last several
weeks a sense of isolation has begun to settle in.
So many things in my life are coming to a close.
Preparing to shut off my phone service, for a very long time.
Closing bank accounts, for a very long time.
Making preparations to sell my truck (I haven’t been without
wheels for over 20 years), and finding someone to continue working with
my video production clients. Sometimes,
several times a day, I find myself having to explain to people why I am
making such drastic changes in my life, that I am leaving everything
that I have come to know.
Once, while speaking at a school recently,
a little boy asked me, “How are you going to get back?”
That is a good
question.
Sometimes late at
night, with a lone candle flickering off the wall, I will sit and talk
to Klondike about what it’s going to be like out on the road and what
adventures we’ll share. And
she will listen patiently and then get up and sit in front of me, or lay
her head on my feet, as if to say, “I understand, and we are going to
be the only ones who really know what happened out there.”
Still later, when I
slide into my sleeping bag on the floor, a cold and primal fear
sometimes gathers in the pit of my stomach.
She will curl up beside me and lay her head on my arm and I will
caress her ears and listen for her breathing to change. When it does, I, still awake and staring into the darkness,
get a glimpse that she is the only one who has the faintest idea what we
are getting ourselves into.
And I know that she
will always take care of me, just like her ancestors have done for their
human partners for the last 3,000 years.
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