Down at Greyfox's end of the Susitna Valley, there are some signs of breakup:  some slush and mud, but still more snow and ice than is usual this time of year.  Here, the seasonal change isn't that far along  All of the rivers and creeks I crossed on my way to town this week are still frozen.  I know it isn't odd at all for people to talk about the weather, but this year we are talking about it in tones of wonder and astonishment.  Where's Breakup!?!

For the past month or more, nighttime temperatures have been from ten to fifteen degrees colder than normal.  As the days have lengthened and this end of the earth turns toward the sun, daytime temperatures have been getting up to highs that are near normal, but the lows are definitely lower than we usually expect this time of year, the days warm up slowly, and high temps last only briefly.

That had nothing to do with my choice of the book I'm reading now, however.  I picked it up at the library just because I enjoy Dana Stabenow's Kate Shugak mystery series, and I hadn't read this one before.  It starts with some words about the season that every Alaskan will find familiar:

Breakup can be more than simply unpleasant.  It gets inconvenient, hard to get around when the driveway and the roads turn to muck and slush.  But there's the discomfort of the unnatural about this year's winter hanging on the way it is.  Nights up here at my end of the valley are still sub-zero.  I never thought I'd be missing breakup.  If it ever comes, I know I'll be looking forward to its end.  Right now, though, I just want it to get started.  I'm ready for winter to end.

Cultural taboos have fascinated me since I was a child.  I first heard the word in a movie.  There, it described an island that the quaint and exotic natives of a neighboring island were warning the intrepid American hero to avoid.  Of course, our hero was headed to that taboo island already and wasn't about to let some cowardly superstitious natives deter him.  Also of course, he was soon to have some hair-raising adventures on the taboo island, barely escaping with the treasure and his life, else the movie would have had no plot and its macguffin would have taken it nowhere.

I really don't recall what thought process led me to inscribe this question on my list of potential blog topics during my recent mouseless interval:  "When did we stop eating dogs?"  That's why I write things down.  I forget them otherwise.  Ideas are perishable goods.

As I was rereading my list today, I asked myself who that "we" is that I referred to above.  If I'm talking about my own ancestors, my ancestry is so mixed that the question is unanswerable.  As recently as four generations back, I have some Lakota ancestors who probably considered a pot of puppy stew to be a real comfort on a chilly day, and some of their present-day full-blood relatives on the rez still do.  I'd probably have to look a little farther back on the European branches of my family tree.  It is written that Washington and his men at Valley Forge ate cat meat, and an ancestor of mine seven generations back was at Valley Forge during that harsh wartime winter, but the histories and diaries say nothing of them eating any dogs.

If by "we" I mean humanity, it's a silly question.  Some of us are eating dog meat as I write these words and as you read them.  It's not even a sensible question to ask about Americans, because there are lots of us, both indigenous and immigrant, who still enjoy an occasional canine meal.  Still, I was curious about the history of the taboo, so I took my search to Google.  The web references I found are more geographical than historical.  I did not learn when it became infra dig in Europe to roast Rover or feed Fido to the family.  I did learn that in some places where dog meat is taboo, it's considered okay to eat cats and horses.

Personally, if I were going to feel squeamish about eating any critter at all, I guess I'd probably feel equally squeamish about horses, cats, dogs and some other species with whom I have had personal relationships.  But as I sit here and search my mind and soul, I can't really find even a single squeam or qualm about eating any wholesome, non-toxic, undiseased, dead food.  I have a problem with live food, especially if it wiggles going down, and I'd have to be starving before I'd kill a friend for food.  Philosophically, I think that any carnivore ought to be willing to kill the meat he or she eats, and I have fished and hunted wild game.  I have also slaughtered and butchered domestic animals.  I come from a family of country folk, farmers and fishers, not city people.

There are many city people, and probably more than a few country folk, who think of eating cats and dogs as a form of cannibalism.  I don't want to go into the animal rights issues or the ethical vegan thing, but I should probably mention cannibalism while I'm on this topic.  I think of long pig as strictly starvation rations, and I'd be more comfortable with slicing off a chunk of my own ample flesh for consumption than with killing a companion.  I'd have no problem with eating the already-dead flesh of disaster victims to survive in a situation such as that of the Donner Party in the winter of 1846-'47 or the Andes plane crash in 1972.  But let's get back to dog food.

In my searches today, I learned that Koreans are probably the most frequent eaters of dog meat.  Asian lore has it that dog meat is yang, so it's mostly a male dish, especially in Vietnam.  It's also mostly a winter dish, because yang foods are heat-producers.  Elsewhere, as with all taboos, whether one is comfortable with eating dog meat is a matter of culture.  In the Philippines, most of the dog eaters live in the northern regions.  In the U.S., most of them are either Native Americans or Asian immigrants.

The photos below are by Ira Morenberg.  The first one doesn't bother me...

On the farms and ranches where I've lived, and when I raised ducks and rabbits in my greenhouse here, the livestock's living conditions were as clean and comfortable as I could make them and the methods of slaughter were as humane as any killing can be.  Likewise with hunting wild game.   I don't necessarily equate killing with cruelty, but maybe that's crazy.  It's a cultural thing, I guess.

Some related links I found:

weird-meat-master-list
The Politics of Dog
the_taboo_of_horses_for_food
deliciousdogs.com

 

...but do you know that the Age of Aquarius is nowhere near its end?  It has only just begun, but apparently not everyone is clued into that fact.  Recently, in the space of two days I found as many references in print to Aquarius's being on the way out.  One of those references was in a novel by Dennis Lehane, and I'm somewhat inclined to disregard such floaters in works of fiction.  To give the author the benefit of the doubt, he might be feigning ignorance in the voice of a character.  The other one, however, saying, "...as the Age of Aquarius recedes," was in Archaeology Magazine, and I would expect the editors and fact checkers to be more alert and knowledgeable.

I fully understand how the misinformation originated.  Those who are uninformed about astrology and know nothing of the Precession of the Equinoxes are likely to equate the Age of Aquarius with the chaotic and Piscean-flavored hippie-led celebration of its dawning back in the late 1960s.  Being uninformed and ignorant, they cannot be expected to understand that we were celebrating the coming of an age that will last approximately two thousand years.  Indubitably, their errors stem from a general ignorance of astrology, which is probably an indication that they have bought into the dominant paradigm's belief that it has no validity.

In my youth, I too believed that astrology was nonsense, just an ignorant superstition.  I was a true skeptic, not easy to convince otherwise, but not adamant in my prejudice either.  Then, near the end of the three years I spent with outlaw bikers, about the time I was gardening with Little Carol, I spent a week or so in bed with the flu and Carol brought me a little paperback book to help me pass the time.  It was an early edition of Goodavage's Write Your Own Horoscope.  I'm sure I've written about it here previously, but cannot at this time find that entry.

Until I read that book, my only awareness of astrology was sun sign astrology as found in the daily horoscopes in newspapers.  After I had calculated a rough version of my detailed natal chart and saw how accurately it described my personality, I was intrigued.  After I read about the Precession of the Equinoxes and matched up the Zodiacal Ages with what I knew of history and prehistoric times, I was hooked.  It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, and in harmony with the planet I was moving out of Piscean beliefs and into Aquarian knowledge.

From the context in which I found that reference in Archaeology Magazine, it was apparent that the writer mistook typical Piscean Age gullibility, which characterizes this transitional period, for the essence of the Age of Aquarius.  It is an understandable error.  For one thing, as soon as Aquarius became a meme in the public consciousness, it became a marketing tool for every entrepreneurial charlatan around (and charlatans have abounded throughout the Age of Pisces).  For another thing, it is typical at the transition into a new age for the outgoing paradigm to assert itself aggressively in a last-ditch effort to survive.  As current evidence of this, just look at the Religious Right.  Pisces is still dragging its feet, kicking and screaming, but it is definitely on its way out.

There are many differing opinions as to the boundaries, in time and in space, between one astrological age and those before and after it.  Some astrologers divide the Zodiac into twelve equal portions, while others shift a boundary one way or another to accomodate a larger or smaller constellation.  Some of those who slice the celestial pie up equally also assign a round number, two thousand years, to each Age.  The ancient Chaldean astrologers would probably be enraged to see how liberally their careful observations and records have been distorted in the name of simplicity.  For astronomical reasons, the past ages were of longer duration than those which came after.   In general, each succeeding age reaches the fullest expression of its sign's significance toward the end of the age, when it expresses that theme to wretched and ridiculous excess just before humanity begins trying to extricate itself so it can move into the new age.

The two millennia (plus a century or so) just past have been the astrological age of the fish, the Piscean Age.  It has been characterized by the rise of the great religions, and dominated by faith.  The Zodiacal Age preceding Pisces, the Age of Aries, saw much violent conquest and the growth of the ancient empires.  Toward its end, as it moved into Pisces, the greatest empire, that of Rome, was at the height of its power.  One of the religions in the Roman Empire during that age was Mithraism.  Mithra is iconically portrayed subduing or slaying a bull.  The bull was the symbol of the Age of Taurus, which came just before Aries.

In the earthy age of Taurus the Bull, mankind made the transition from a hunter-gatherer lifestyle to agriculture.  The settled lifestyle required for the care of crops brought about civilization.  The Bull was an important icon for the Minoan and Mycenean cultures which were at their peak in that Zodiacal Age.   Before Taurus was the earliest historical age, that of Gemini, the Twins.  It's not when precession and the sequence of Zodiacal Ages began, but when history began.

Gemini is an Air sign, and Air is classically related to intellect and communication.  This was the beginning of history because it was the beginning of writing.  Sculptural images that remain from the Phoenician, Egyptian, Babylonian, Assyrian and Vedic cultures of that time show many winged figures and pairs of twins, even winged twins.  Aquarius is also an Air sign, and we might expect some revolutionary changes in thinking and communication during the coming two millennia.  I mean that astrologers might expect them because that is implied by the precession into that Age, and also that anyone else who pays attention to current trends might expect them as well.

Predating the Age of Gemini was the Age of Cancer, the Neolithic Era.  Archaeology, paleontology and geology can fill in some of the details of that prehistoric period.  It was the era of the Mother Goddess, and people born with Sun in Cancer tend to be more maternal than most.  The Age of Leo is the time when the Sphinx, the man-lion, is believed to have been created, according to recent research that shows it is much older than previously thought, predating the pyramids.  Some theorists think that the Sphinx was created during the transition from the Age of Virgo into the Age of Leo.

There are enough ambiguities and outright unknowns in this subject to stimulate endless debate.  And that's just among those who have already decided that the idea of Zodiacal Ages has validity.

Almost a week ago, just before my mouseless interlude, slave_slutangel commented (on an entry, Voiceless Echoes, that was about astrology, ESP, and psychology -- not about politics at all), "Maybe you should go into politics...we could sure use you!"

I responded to her suggestion thusly:  "Politics!?! Even if I wanted to, I think a couple of felony convictions
would be an obstacle. I really don't think I'd want to be in politics,
and that's putting it mildly."

To that, JadedFey left a thought-provoking comment that referred to a different kind of politics.  Before I could reply further, I was left without the luxury of a point-and-click input device.  Rather than learning how to navigate with the keyboard, I ordered a new mouse and spent a few days reading.  It struck me as synchronistically appropriate when I came upon this in the book I was reading:

Our new mouse arrived this afternoon.  About time!  We pay for 2-day shipping and wait five days to get it.  If we had opted for the next-day shipping, it would have taken three or four days and would have cost six times as much as the value of the merchandise. That's life on the edge of the back of beyond.  It has its compensations, I guess.  Living here, I mean.  Yes, that has its compensations.

It might have been possible to post here without the mouse, but I wasn't ready to try to learn the keyboard secrets.  It was quite distressing enough just listening to Doug mutter, curse, and occasionally scream as he tried to navigate.  The peace that descended on this household today, after he unpacked the box, was astounding.  He had been sleepy and about ready to go to bed at the time, but having the mouse to use helped him stay up a few hours longer.  This means I'll be up a few hours longer tonight or risk having the fire go out.  Oh, well, at least I can blog.

I already had a backlog of blog ideas because I'd been doing Iditarod reports for a couple of weeks.  I may never get them all covered, because new ones keep coming up.  I have been keeping a list of ideas as they occurred to me the last few days while I was reading.  I'm considering starting with the topic of politics, since that one was suggested by a couple of comments received on the last entry before the mouse broke.  I have been thinking about politics from time to time ever since last Wednesday.  Synchronistically, several apt quotes about politics came up in some of the things I was reading.

Before I can really focus all my attention on blogging, I've got to finish a job I started days and daze ago:  portioning out a month's supply of nutritional supplements.  It's been rougher than usual, getting all my little bottles in neat rows and deciding which big bottles I need for filling them.  I had to move furniture and do some strenuous stuff standing on my head because the cats had rearranged my supplies and equipment and I had stacked a bunch of books and magazines in my way.  The job is now at the point where I need to move the unneeded "big" stock bottles off my bed, set out the little bottles, remove the lids, portion out the pills, cap the bottles.  Then, after I put the mess away, I will feel free to blog.

Cats!  I'm so glad we got Hilary spayed.  Her first litter we call the ABCs:  Alice (who went semi-feral about the time her mom's second litter was born), Bobo (Bobobobo Bobobo, who does all the nasty tomcat dominance things such as fighting, spraying, and mounting everything in sight), and Cecil who was my favorite, and who disappeared.  While the ABC's were small, we adopted Albion.  He competes with Bobo in caterwauling and spraying contests.

Hilary's second litter, four males, we called the Horsekittens of the Apocalypse.  Max is attempting to outdo Bobo and Albion in all the nasty tomcat activities.  The other three are relatively mellow, but neither Buzz, Sammich, nor Faust (AKA Bobito) is totally free of tomfoolery.  The last litter consist of the two females we recently had spayed, Fancy and Tabby, and their brother Jones.  We call them the Three Stooges -- madness and mayhem.

I had thought when I sat down here that I'd do a quick little rant about how I've been feeling physically.  The more I think about it the less I think I'd be able to keep it brief.  I think I'll just hobble back over to the mess on my bed and see if I can get the pill mill all bottled up before it's time to slide between the sheets tonight.

If I have enough energy left when I'm done, I'll come back and take on politics... maybe.

Sometimes, in some things, I'm a bit slow.  I'm not beating myself up about it, just recognizing and acknowledging.  I'm plenty quick to pick up on some other things, I guess, and I'm not boasting about that.  Maybe that second thought came to me in contrast with and compensation for my realization of those incidences of "slow pickup," and maybe it's part of this story, so it seemed appropriate to say it.  It came to mind and I blurted it out.

I just realized this morning that for the three decades of my life roughly corresponding to my second transit of Saturn, I did a lot of blurting.  It became my style to just say whatever popped into my mind.  Before I was thirty years old, I censored what I said and kept a lot of things to myself.  I often projected a false persona because I didn't like the person I was.  I had one big horrible secret, about killing my father, that I told no one.  I also had a lot of more minor guilt, small shameful secrets.

Some of my shame was entirely unwarranted, just the dirty overlay of guilt with which a moralistic and puritanical culture paints natural biological drives.  In addition to that, I had made a lot of regrettable choices.  Not until I started working through them in group therapy, did I begin to sort those things out, forgive myself for being a normal human being, and turn my mistakes into learning experiences instead of letting them hang on in the back of my mind as haunting secrets.

I tend to go to extremes.  I always have, even before I learned anything about astrology and discovered that there are indications in my birth chart that suggest someone who goes to extremes.  I learned in group that it is therapeutic to speak one's mind.  The therapy also taught me a healthier way to relate to people.  Where previously I had been manipulative, telling people what they wanted to hear so that they would like me and provide external validation, after therapy I became more emotionally self-sufficient.  Once I internalized the idea that what other people think of me is none of my concern, I went all-out in freely and openly expressing my thoughts and feelings.

However, since I'm very empathic and somewhat telepathic, what I was expressing was not always my own thoughts or feelings.  It took me a while to realize that, and even longer to learn how to sort those things out so that I would know fairly reliably most of the time which thoughts in my mind are mine and which ones I am picking up from other sources.  The types of thoughts I pick up most frequently come in the form of a voiceless echo:  someone will say something and stop speaking but go on thinking about what they were saying, either to extend the thought, or to contradict it if what they had said was untrue or inaccurate.

Over time, to save myself some trouble and to avoid embarrassing strangers, I began to filter what I said when I was in social situations.  With intimate friends I'd usually just go on and blurt it all out.  The people who knew me knew I was psychic.  Some of them simply accepted it, and others were bothered by it.  Each of my two closest female friends during the 1980s had a different reaction to it.  My oldest friend Mardy would occasionally be chagrined that it seemed she had no secrets from me, but she was generally accepting.  My nearest neighbor Willa said it freaked her out that I answered her questions before she asked and exposed some of her secrets around her daughters.

The aspects of Moon, Mercury, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune in my natal chart  illustrate the connections in my life among the unconscious mind (mine and others') and communication, and might shed some light on the reasons why this blurting-out of other people's thoughts and feelings had its inception at my first Saturn return and went through some marked changes at my second Saturn return.

(Parenthetical Iditarod Update:  It is over.  Ellen Halvorson made it to Nome at 02-56-20 on 3/21/07 with the Red Lantern, in 58th place, with 8 dogs, and a time of 16 days, 11 hours, 56 minutes, and 20 seconds.  In 1973, '74, '76, '77, '82, and '85, that time would have been fast enough to win the race.)

I'm eating some words here, issuing a retraction, a bit farther on, but first, here is what might turn out to be my next-to-last Iditarod report this year:

Fifty-four mushers have finished the race (not counting Ramy Brooks, who finished under a big dark cloud and was disqualified).  Two mushers, Bruce Linton and Heather Siirtola, both rookies, are out of Safety on the last leg of the trail to Nome.  Donald Smidt left White Mountain for Safety late this morning, and the current and presumptive Red Lantern, Ellen Halvorson, left White Mountain early this afternoon.  The race could be over today, and should be over by tomorrow at the latest.

Sunday night, the Mushers' Awards Banquet was held in Nome.  I already told you that Sigrid Ekran is Rookie of the Year.  If you've been paying attention, you also know that Jeff King won the Gold Coast Award for being first into Unalakleet, and Martin Buser won First Musher to the Yukon and the Spirit of Alaska Award for being first to McGrath.

A new award this year, The Northern Air Cargo Herbie Nayokpuk Memorial Award, a trophy depicting a baleen dog team on a granite base, is voted on by checkers at checkpoints along the Bering Sea Coast and awarded to the musher who best exemplifies Herbie's spirit.  It was won by Louis Nelson, Sr.

Ed Iten won the Leonhard Seppala Humanitarian Award for outstanding dog care.  Tollef Monson won both Most Improved Musher and the Sportsmanship Award.  He was running John Baker's puppy team this year, and finished in tenth place.

Lance Mackey's lead dog Larry won the Lolly Medley Memorial Golden Harness Award.  In 1974, Lolly Medley was one of the first two women, along with Mary Shields, to finish the Iditarod.  Lolly's son, Ramey Smyth, finished sixteenth this year.

Australian volunteer veterinarian Mike Gascoigne won the Golden Stethoscope.  Lance Mackey had recommended him for an award after the vet diagnosed Zorro's pneumonia and sat up through the night with him.

Lance Mackey himself won the inaugural running of the Cantwell Classic this year, the Copper Basin 300 last year, and the Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race in '05, '06, and '07, this year becoming the first ever to win both Quest and Iditarod in the same year.  He also won the Dorothy Page Halfway Award and Most Inspirational Musher.  That last award isn't only for his victories on the trail.  Lance had throat cancer, and following treatment for it his salivary glands don't work, which makes eating problematic for him.  He dealt with that by going without food for long stretches of the race.  Oh, and he's had a finger amputated too... and I'm sure there's something else I'm forgetting.  He's inspirational, fershure.

Ramy Brooks 2006, photo credit: Jeff Schultz

The scandal surrounding Ramy Brooks's disqualification for abusing his team continues to escalate.  Today's Anchorage Daily News carried two stories, headlined Teacher says brooks was slugging, kicking his dogs and Iditarod takes lumps for Brooks' dog beating
. 

Witnesses' stories don't conform to either the statement Ramy Brooks made, "I don't agree with the idea it was abuse, but I accept their [the Trail Committee's] decision.  I probably didn't use the best of language, and I put myself into a compromising situation,'' or the official statements issued by the Trail Committee. 

I dunno.  It seems to me that the differences between these two photos reflect more than just the passage of a year, different lighting, and the emotions registered by the facial expressions.  In the latter one, to me, Ramy looks puffy, pasty, and unwell.  Greyfox and I have been speculating privately about what might account for his behavior and the altered appearance, but it would be irresponsible to speculate publicly.  As I said, I dunno.

Rats!  I was going to put a rating on this entry and then just go ahead and use the strong language that suits my strong feelings.  The trouble with that is that I have maybe just a little bit too much self-awareness, thanks to the Old Fart.  Greyfox has been telling me for as long as he has known me that I am "extraordinary," and that when he speaks of "people," or "the human race," he does not include me in that group.  Consequently, I have begun trying extra hard to put myself in other people's places.  I looked over the ratings and realized that even though the strongest language I might use would only warrant basic (green) guidance in my opinion, there are people who would probably rate it explicit (red) content.  A yellow "caution" rating seemed like too easy a copout, so I'm really copping out and not rating it at all.  Beware, dammit!  Right at this moment, I don't know what I'll be saying here, but I'm not gonna pull any punches.

First, I want to express my appreciation and gratitude to everyone who commented on the entry about Rule 42 and this year's Iditarod dog deaths.  You gave me something to blog about today.  I also want to invite any of you who feel that I've misinterpreted your comments, or who just have further feedback to offer, or who haven't had your say yet, to feel free to chip in on this discussion.  If I come off as angry or upset, let me assure you that I'm not pissed off and my feelings of frustration are not focussed on any specific person or group.  If I turn out to be offensive, I am an equal opportunity offender.

One facet of the topic is death, and I come into the discussion in full awareness that my view of death differs radically from that of the mainstream.  I remember dying, not just in the reincarnational past lives sense, but also a little cessation of vital signs from which I was skillfully brought back in this very same body I now inhabit.  I can't say with any certainty whether dogs or cats or horses, or even all humans, have more than one lifetime.  I just know that I've been around for a long time in a number of different bodies, so death doesn't have the feel of permanence to me that most people ascribe to it.  There are lots of things more troublesome than dying, as far as I'm concerned.

One of those troublesome things to me is torture.  I'm against it, anti-torture all the way.  I don't think there's any justification for it, ever, not even in retribution against a torturer.  fairydragonstar says, "Dogs are stoic...," and I can agree with that, up to a point.  Greyfox says that I'm stoic, too.  Maybe so.  I don't whimper and whine over little shit, and neither does my dog Koji.  But I do make pain noises when the pain is severe, and so does Koji.  He vocalizes to express fear, too, when he catches the scent of a bear. 

Any animal with a voice has a natural tendency to cry out in pain or terror.  Some of them have specific sounds that cry, "danger," to others of their species.  I tell you in all seriousness, anyone who hears a team of huskies jumping and lunging in harness, eager to get out on the trail and run, might think from all the yipping and howling that they were being tortured.  In that situation, the only humane thing for a musher to do is pull the snow anchor, let off the brake, tell them to go, hang onto the sled and do his best to keep up.  We have a leash law here, but neither Doug nor I can run enough for our husky Koji, so sometimes we have to take the risk and let him off the leash.

Thirty-some years ago when I first came to Alaska, I was working in an office with a view of Fourth Avenue when the Fur Rendezvous World Championship Sled Dog Race ran by right outside my window.  I didn't see the start of the race, but caught sight of the teams just a couple of blocks short of the finish line.   The dogs looked tired, winded, panting in the snow and subzero temperature.  In my ignorance, I thought it was horrible what they were making those dogs do.  The World Championship is a sprint race, not a long distance endurance race with lots of stops for rest like the Iditarod.  Iditarod teams trotting up Front Street toward the Burled Arch after 1,100 miles look fresher than those sprint dogs that go all-out over a few miles of track.

Eventually, through experience, my attitude changed.  I saw some races, got to know some sled dogs, and became acquainted with some mushers, including Susan Butcher.   I think Susan had more to do with changing my mind about dog racing than any other influence.  There are dozens if not hundreds of pictures in existence of Susan with an armload of puppies.  Puppies are hard not to love, and Susan Butcher didn't even try.  She arranged a life for herself that was filled with healthy, happy puppies and healthy, happy, well-trained, hard-working dogs.

I first saw her when she was nineteen years old.  She was on a local women's talk show on daytime TV, appealing for sponsorship so she could fulfill her dream of getting into the Iditarod.  The race was in its second year at the time, 1974.  Not until 1978 did Susan have the funding and qualifying experience to run her first Iditarod.  By then, she had bred and trained a team that ran in the money, finishing in 19th place in her rookie year.

She finished in the money every year she ran, except for 1985, the year Libby Riddles became the first woman to win.  That year, a moose stomped Susan's team and got in a few kicks on her as she worked to unhitch and rescue her dogs.  She scratched that year, then came back to win four out of the next five Iditarods.  Her passion was dogs, she was bright and articulate, and her contributions to sled dog breeding, nutrition, and health have probably gone broader and deeper than most people realize.  She once said, "I have been known to walk in front of my team for 55 miles, with snow
shoes, to lead them through snow storms, in non-racing situations,
where I could have just as easily radioed a plane to come and get me."

I thought of Susan leading her dogs, and of a number of other stories I've heard about mushers leading their teams through tough situations or even over the finish line in Nome, when I read the msnbc story that LuckyStars pointed me to, about Ramy Brooks "spanking" his team when they were reluctant to move off an icefield.   Race Marshal Mark Nordman said that Ramy, "lost his temper," and that he [Ramy], "felt it was discipline he needed to get his team off the ice."   In disciplining Ramy Brooks, as my beloved Old Fart ArmsMerchant put it, "I suspect the officials were motivated not by love of dogs and the sport, but by fear of PETA."

Prevailing opinion seems to be that Brooks wasn't thinking straight.  The fact is that no matter how effective, practical, or otherwise his action was, it was against the rules.  I don't know Ramy personally, met his mom Roxy Wright when he was just a little boy.  I can't say anything about how smart he is, how he cares for his dogs, or anything other than what I have gotten second or third-hand.  Whatever Ramy might have been thinking, he's not talking to the media, and none of my links to his website are working.  Whether he took the site down himself, someone sabotaged it, or the server crashed from excessive traffic, it's a safe bet that he was getting more traffic from detractors intent on harassing him than from friends being supportive.  A man's friends are limited to those with whom he comes into contact, but MSNBC covers the world.

I really wasn't planning to blog about this today until I read JadedFey's comment.  She left some useful informative links about apparently healthy human athletes who die unexpectedly while participating in sports.  She quoted Kirk Freitas, head track and field coach from California State University at Chico, who said that sudden athlete death is, "a lot more prevalent than people think." Of course, human athletes can and do sign waivers and even if we could be sure that a canine athlete was capable of informed consent, our legal system is not yet sufficiently enlightened to be prepared to accept an inky pawprint on a dotted line. 

Playing devil's advocate, she said, "...maybe dogs are just stupid, and they really don't want to run around ... for days and days.  Horses too."   She didn't have to tell me she was playing devil's advocate there.  I know this woman, and know that she has known a few dogs, enough to know that they're not stupid and that they let us know when we're compelling them to do things they really don't like.  I'm glad that she brought up horses, too.  Dogs may (or may not) be smarter than horses.  Both species have been willing companions and competent helpers to people since prehistoric times.  When it comes to estimating their intelligence, I think people may be the stupid ones.  Just because they can't talk, it doesn't mean they don't communicate.  Animal rights advocates who say that Alaskan sled dogs don't want to race just aren't listening to what the dogs are saying.

What I have seen of the most vocal and activist animal rights people suggests to me that they are letting sentimental feelings overrule reason, and are acting from positions of ignorance.  I agree with some of their aims.  I know that there are better ways to work with animals than trying to "train" them through violence, starvation, or other forms of abuse.  I also think that some of the things we have trained them to do were misguided.  We humans have gotten ourselves into a situation where we have breeds of fighting dogs, chickens, and who knows what others, whose main function is to maim and kill others of their own species.  That's outrageous and absurd.  I think, in that case, disappointing and frustrating some raging pit bulls and game cocks might not be such a bad idea.  We regulate boxing and full-contact karate and don't condone killing there, after all.

Racing is, in my opinion, another matter.   If the training methods are humane and the living and working conditions are monitored, regulated, and arranged for the health and safety of the animals, I think it is just as reasonable to allow non-human athletes to compete as it is to let people do it.  Horse racing and dog racing have long histories in which abuse has been a factor, but abuse can be stopped.  There are other factors that make these pursuits worthwhile, and those include scientific discoveries conducive to the health and well-being of their species and our own.

I think that the extreme animal rights activists are stepping on their own dicks when they "liberate" captive animals who then either die in traffic or in the wild, or cause ecological chaos in an environment where they don't belong.  Stealing show animals is likewise self-defeating, but I suppose that some of these fanatics feel as if their sacrifices are worth the fines and jail sentences if they gain publicity for their cause.  They remind me of the "pro-life" fanatics who have blown up abortion clinics or shot down physicians who perform abortions.  They're not thinking any straighter than Ramy Brooks was when he spanked his dogs to get them off that ice field.

In memory of Snickers, Thong, and Kate....

Iditarod Trail Committee Rule # 42 states:

"Any dog that expires on the trail must be taken by the musher to a checkpoint. The musher may transport the dog to either the checkpoint just passed, or the upcoming checkpoint. An expired dog report must be completed by the musher and presented to a race official along with the dog.

"All dog deaths will be treated as a priority, with every effort being made to determine the cause of death in a thorough and reliable manner.

"The race marshal or his/her appointed judges will determine whether the musher should continue or be disqualified.''

Photo:  Karen Ramstead's team in 2005, photographer's name unknown, source: Google.

This year there have been three dog deaths during the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race.  That's about average, and the dog deaths are one of the reasons many people are opposed to the race altogether.

Some of you who have left comments here have mentioned how little race coverage you see in mainstream media Outside (that's what we in Alaska call the rest of the world, which might give you some insight into our mindset).  Greyfox told me that people on his forums at totse and ParadoxSector also mentioned that they found Iditarod coverage sparse and spotty.  If this event is such a big deal, some wonder, why isn't it more widely covered?  I have a theory about that.

This race is not politically correct.  Mushers have been reviled and harrassed.  Businesses that have sponsored teams have been boycotted through the efforts of PETA and the Humane Society.  I don't suppose it's too great a stretch to imagine that TV networks might get negative feedback for covering the race.  Many people want the Iditarod to just go away, and if they can't make that happen they will throw their monkey wrenches into any gears they can reach.

I don't condone killing dogs, nor do I condemn any musher who has a dog die in harness.  I'm not condoning or condemning those who criticize and condemn the mushers and the Trail Committee, either, although I sometimes have to work at not responding to ignorance and hatred with hatred and contempt.  I try not to judge anyone at all, and I wouldn't be a trail judge for anything in the world.   Right now, I'm filled with confusion and unease over one of this year's dog deaths and its aftermath, and I'll go into that later, but first:

Snickers, a five year old female leader in Karen Ramstead's team, died at the Grayling checkpoint of an apparent bleeding ulcer.  A team of four veterinarians performed surgery to try and save Snickers.  In Ms. Ramstead's words, they:

"...worked for hours on her. The lengths they went to in the middle of the wilds of Alaska were simply amazing and included a dog to dog blood transfusion off of her brother, Crunchie (who was so cooperative and calm it was spooky).  I know that everything possible was done to try and save our little lead dog - and we will forever be grateful for that.

"I was also very touched by the compassion and genuine sympathy from the Iditarod volunteers and the residents of Grayling. They made a horrible time somewhat more bearable. And warm thanks to fellow mushers Cindy Gallea and Bryan Mills. Cindy graciously offered her skills to help hold off veins during Snickers transfusion - and Bryan Mills, in a move so kind it makes my heart ache, offered to travel to Nome with me should I decide to stay in the Race, so I wouldn't have to be alone.

"That's one of the things about Iditarod, it often strips you bare and shows you for what you really are - and in the case of the folks in Grayling it showed what remarkable people they all really are."