Memorable Dogs

I had never thought of dogs as being other than the medium sized, mild tempered canine that roamed around my childhood home as they did in countless other suburban homes and who were all, for the most part, the mixed “Heinz 57” breed whose parentage was unknown and not considered important. They were adopted mainly from what was known as “the dog pound”. We played with them, cuddled them while watching TV, secretly slipped them morsels of our dinner when no one was watching and generally accepted them as part of the family.

All that changed when I spotted a lone wolf trotting across the ice of a frozen lake far below me and romantically wondered if they could be house-trained as I had read in Farley Mowat’s novels and other people’s memoirs. It remained an unrealized fantasy though, as the closest I came to encountering anything that resembled wolves were the dogs of the north on the adventure I was about to begin that changed my perception of dogs.

Seated in the right-hand cockpit seat (usually designated as that of the co-pilot) in a Cessna 180, 4-seater aircraft equipped with pontoons, I had an aerial map spread open on my lap should the pilot to my left need to refer to it. Before taking off from the air company’s base lake, he had casually remarked that he had flown to my destination, a small Oji-Cree settlement to the north, only once or twice previously, but thought he could find the way.

He navigated by what he jokingly referred to as “IFR”, an acronym in conventional aviation terms meaning, “Instrument Flight Rules” but in northern bush flying at the time, meant “I Follow River”. That’s how they found their way to otherwise unmarked remote villages, flying over lakes, forests and rivers where everything looked the same (to me) and navigation was dependent on visual clues, maps and a built-in compass.

As this was my first flight in any type of aircraft, I made very certain that the map was always visible to the pilot during our one-hour-plus flight, 200 air miles away from our small northern departure town.

Landing on the bay of my destination lake I had the opportunity to scan the layout of the village as we taxied toward shore. Rustic log and unpainted frame cabins, with 1 or 2 dogs tied up outside some of them, were scattered along the bay as was a log church identified by a large wooden cross, as well as a small Hudson Bay Company outpost store tucked in amongst them.

The village dogs, I soon found out, were not the pampered pets of their southern cousins who lived inside their family’s home but were working dogs of the north whose daily existence in all kinds of weather, was confined, for the most part, to the parameters allowed by the length of their tethers.

Neither were they fed commercial kibble or tinned food mixtures that would have been too expensive for their owners as all goods were flown in and the cost of freight would have been prohibitive. As fish, moose meat, occasionally even bear meat were all plentiful and the most readily available foods for their owners, the dogs were fed the same diet. Their diets, high in protein and fats (especially the good fats from fish), which the dogs needed to survive the cold winters, might just have been healthier than those of their southern counterparts; although, judging by their lean appearance, perhaps they might not have been fed enough.

Occasionally, one or two dogs escaped their tethers and headed to the village garbage dump which consisted of a large hole, over which a wooden deck had been built with a lidded chimney- like chute into which garbage was deposited. Many were the times when disposing of our garbage, that we heard the scuffle and snarl of dogs who had tunneled under the wooden platform where they competed for the paltry scraps they found.

People were generally wary of the dogs, especially the village elderly who walked the paths (there were no roads or vehicles) armed with stout walking sticks in case one approached too closely, but there were never any attacks on people as we had heard there were in other remote villages.

The only freedom these tethered dogs enjoyed was when families moved to their winter hunting camps in late November when the lakes had frozen solidly enough to permit travel over them. Freeze-up began on October 31st the year I was there. Dogs pulled large toboggans (lighter than the sleds of their more-northernly Husky cousins) laden with household goods, tents and other necessities needed for survival in the subarctic winter wilderness. Others ran along beside families as they crossed the lake ice and frozen muskeg. Snow machines had yet to become popular.

It's quite likely that on these excursions, a few dogs had close encounters with their wilder ancestors in the late winter months, resulting in wolfdogs among their offspring. Wolves and dogs are interfertile, so they are able to interbreed. We didn’t hear a lot of barking from the village dogs and as wolves do not bark like dogs but make a sound more like a growl-bark, it wouldn’t have been at all surprising had there been some hybrids among them.

Although we seldom came in close contact with the village dogs, they made their presence known when darkness fell. A solitary howl began at one end of the village that was answered from the other end with others joining in until the village echoed from all sides to the full mournful chorus of dogs serenading the dark skies. Their evening concert reached a final crescendo and then abruptly broke off as the dogs, having communicated with their fellow canines, surrendered to sleep, leaving behind a vacuous silence.

It was during those evening concerts in the otherwise still and deep darkness of night, with no streetlights or traffic sounds, that we realized just how isolated and far from our southern urban homes we really were. At first, we found the howls eerie and disconcerting (no pun intended), but eventually drew comfort from them realizing that the village was kept safe and protected by the dogs.

In mid-January, I was invited along on a flight to deliver supplies to the Hudson Bay Company store in a settlement further north on the west coast of Hudson Bay. (It was on this flight that I was to spot the lone wolf trotting across the frozen lake.) After the flight of a few hours, and in need of a pitstop, I set out hoping to find the HBC outpost store. Unable to ask for directions as no one had yet arrived to unload the plane, I decided to follow the first trodden-down path I found in this snow-camouflaged landscape.

Nearing a cluster of cabins dotted with mounds of snow in front, I planned to knock on the first door to ask about the HBC, but just as I approached them, the mounds rose up and growled. Not snow --but snow-covered dogs who appeared burlier than the leaner dogs of my village. These were the true working dogs of the north, either huskies or closely related to them that were used in teams to pull sleighs over the frozen tundra where at full trot they could reach speeds of twenty miles an hour and cover up to one hundred miles a day.

Not knowing how long their tethers reached or what their reaction might be if I approached any closer, as I’m sure they could sense that I was a stranger to the village, I slowly retreated, walking backwards, until I was sure that I was out of their range. Huskies are known to make fine loyal pets and to have a playful nature, but I doubted that these fellows were in a playful mood after being startled awake from their afternoon naps.

Finally, having found the path to the HBC, I made use of their “facilities” that consisted of an empty ten-gallon drum (commonly known as a “honey bucket”) topped by a toilet seat so high that I had to stand on tiptoe in order to reach it. Having completed my mission, I slipped back outside avoiding eye contact with those in the small store as I’m sure they’d all been made aware of my activities through the open-slatted saloon-type door.

Nearing the frozen lake, I glanced over to see the dogs peacefully asleep again ensconced in their snowy blankets, curled up to preserve body heat, their noses tucked into their furry tails, which along with their double coat of fur, kept them warm though the minus- thirty- to minus-forty-Fahrenheit degree winters. I wasn’t about to disturb them again as it goes against northern protocol to mess with another owner’s working dogs.

The saddest, most poignant encounter I had with a northern dog took place in another small village further south. This was a German Shepherd whose owner had recently passed away and no one knew what to do with him, as for many months he had been left tied up outside and cruelly teased and taunted by children and others passing by. His only recourse had been to snap and snarl at them as he strained at the end of his leash. As there were no facilities for homeless dogs in this remote area, those deemed to be dangerous were taken into the woods and summarily disposed of by a single shot.

Deciding to rescue this otherwise-doomed animal, he was brought into our home. Never having been inside four walls before, the poor traumatized dog shied away from us if we tried to approach him. He paced from room to room like any wild creature, keeping close to the walls and jumping up and walking over any obstacle in his path including beds and chairs.

I positioned myself on a chair in the hallway and summoning my dog-whisperer muse, began speaking softly to him as he passed by. After a few circuits around the rooms and through the hall, accompanied by my doggie stories, jokes and maybe even a little soft singing, he began to throw quick sideways glances at me as he scurried past, but he kept pacing.

Time passed and my voice was growing a bit hoarse when the miracle happened—he gave my outstretched hand a quick lick before turning to continue his circuit. It was a magical moment—he had decided that I was safe to approach and so began the journey to earn his trust.

As days passed, he was fed the best food we could find in the HBC, including shares of our own meals and was taken outside for walks in the bush behind our house, always on a leash which he permitted but struggled against as it was a reminder of his previous captivity. He became less anxious inside and claimed a comfortable corner of the living room where we placed blankets for his bed. I became his safe person as he followed me around and to whom he stayed close whenever anyone one else was around.

Regrettably, I had a trip planned to visit family which necessitated a two-week absence. While I was gone, he had somehow managed to get outside by himself and had attacked someone on the road. I’m sure memories of his former mistreatment came to play or perhaps his protective instincts came to the fore: in any case, his perception of “people on the road” equated to “danger”. Whatever the poor animal’s misguided motivations were, his fate and demise were certain in the same way as others who had been deemed dangerous. When I returned, he was no longer there.

I arrived to find his blanket bed empty, still in his safe spot with a “whiff of unwashed dog”, as he had not yet permitted himself to be bathed, permeating his corner. I deeply regretted and I’m still saddened that his socializing and his life had been cut short in my absence; my only solace being that at least his last days had been ones of comfort and safety.

Several years later, now in an urban setting, another German Shepherd, not a rescue this time, but one from a certified breeder, joined us. Because he often vocalized by giving a single “woof”, he was named, appropriately enough I thought, “Woofer” in spite of friends jokingly inquiring if we had a second dog named “Tweeter” in that era of stereo systems.

Being in the last months of pregnancy, it wasn’t the most opportune time to house-train a puppy for whom I mopped up the kitchen floor many times during his first weeks.

Finally deciding that potty training was a must, as bending over to wipe up after him became too laborious and uncomfortable, I put him outside in the fenced yard several times a day and watched through the kitchen window, rewarding him with a treat whenever he had completed his business.

He caught on very quickly—a little too well it seemed--as it didn’t take long before he turned this into a game, clever dog that he was. Time and again, he whined at the door to be let out, lifted his leg against the lone tree in the yard, squeezed out a tiny dribble and came bounding in, tail wagging, tongue lolling, grinning his doggie grin, and eyes flashing joyfully as he excitedly awaited his treat, completely reversing our roles as trainer and trainee.

This lasted a few days until intermittently the only reward I offered him was a pat on the head accompanied by a “good dog” affirmation, at which he harrumphed and sulked in his bed, all the while shooting me doleful looks to convey his disappointment that all his exertions had earned so little reward. The die had been cast and the habit established thankfully and there was no longer need for me to clean up after him, except for the occasional accident.

Woofer was free to wander around his sizable backyard as it was completely fenced which made it easy to just let him out without worrying that he would stray from the property—or so it was at first. During the fall months, while he was still a small pup, the 3-foot-high fence was enough to contain him.

As fall turned to winter and snow piled up along the fence, it didn’t take long for him to climb up the snowbank and over the fence to run around in the field behind our house. Even as the snow receded and finally melted away in the spring, his legs having grown longer and stronger, now enabled him to clear the fence with a single bound to chase whatever moved in the field beyond.

This in itself was troubling, but as other houses along the road also backed onto the same field, it became a major concern when Woofer discovered that the dog at the far end of the road usually had food laid out in his yard. We began to receive irate phone calls about Woofer’s illicit visits and raiding practices.

My stern lectures about sending him to “Bad Doggie School” that was guarded by gigantic ferocious pussy cats, to which he listened with a mournful expression, had no effect, and so we had no choice but to chain him with a long leash to the tree in the backyard which still allowed him plenty of movement, but effectively ended his forays into the neighborhood to the relief of all concerned--except him, of course.

Woofer proved to be a long-suffering, patient companion to my son, who, as a baby learning to crawl, clambered and drooled all over him, poking him in places that otherwise, had it been anyone else, he would not have tolerated.

Sadly, Woofer was struck by a boat while swimming in our nearby river a couple of years later. His back legs were so badly damaged that there was no hope of recovery according to his vet and the most humane course of action was to put him to sleep as he would never walk again. We sadly had to let him go.

We grieved the tragic loss of Woofer knowing that he had suffered excruciating pain. I didn’t want to know the details; just knowing that he suffered through no fault of his own due to the negligence of a careless boater was almost too much to bear and it still angers me today.

Being without a canine companion saddened my young son as well and we relented in the Fall to try again with another German Shepherd pup. A thunderstorm erupted the day of his arrival that sent him cowering under the kitchen table. Hoping to give him a totem name that would instill him with some courage, he was christened, Thunder.

He also became my son’s ever-patient companion, the same as Woofer had been. Thunder wasn’t quite as brave as his predecessor though. He barked robustly at strangers if he were outside when they arrived, all the while wagging his tail, and usually from the corner of the house where he then retreated. It was as if he was compelled by an innate sense to bark a warning in order to protect his family, but it didn’t extend to a display of overly aggressive behavior. But he certainly proved his loyalty one summer’s day.

I had decided to do some yard work in front of our new home which stood at the dead end of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by tall trees. My son sat in his kiddy car on the lawn with Thunder close by. When the phone rang, attached in those days to the kitchen wall, with a quick glance to make sure son and dog were close to the house, I ran inside to answer it and after an abbreviated explanation as to why I couldn’t pursue a conversation, I returned outside.

What greeted me was heart-stopping—no child, no dog--just an empty kiddy car. Rushing to the sides and back of the house as well as into the trees, calling out my son’s name, brought no response. The short laneway to the school yard next door was adjacent to our driveway and rushing into the playground, a quick glance proved there was no one there… until, off to the side, I spotted Thunder’s tail waving back and forth behind some tall weeds.

And there I found my son purposely walking along picking up sticks and stones with his loyal companion following behind. Only a parent will know the sheer terror and relief I felt that day and even now, many years later, remembering my decision to answer the phone fills me with anxiety. Had I not caught sight of Thunder’s tail…. doesn’t bear thinking about.

Thankfully the day ended peacefully and somewhat ironically with my son and Thunder watching their favorite television program, “Emergency”, after which it was my son’s bedtime, but not until “the words come on” as he stated many times. As the credits (“the words”) rolled, accompanied by fire engine sirens, Thunder stood in profile against the screen, head pointing up, ears flat and in perfect imitation of his wild ancestors, earnestly howled along with the sirens until they finally faded away, signaling bedtime for both dog and child.

My son does not recall this incident, but it is one that fills me even now with immense gratitude for Thunder’s loyalty in staying with his young companion.

And Thunder was blessed to live out his life in an open rural area, free to run and explore safely within the boundary of an electric dog fence during the hours that my son was in school.

End Note

The previous work of northern dogs has, for the most part, been replaced by snow machines and other vehicles. However, the number of dogs has continued to increase to the point of over-population, and many have been left homeless strays, who have been subjected to “culling” in the same manner previously described. Larger centers in the south have set up mobile spaying and neutering clinics in remote areas. Some also have rescue programs to airlift northern dogs for adoption by those in the south. One of these advocacy and rescue agencies is The Barking Billboard. https://thebarkingbillboard.com/