by K. A. Tucker
Howie and I share a glance.
“So, now she’s not your dog?” I press, my voice heavy with doubt.
“She wasn’t, up until yesterday morning.” He yanks off his leather mittens. “But she’s my dog now, because there’s no way in hell she’s going back to the asshole who did that to her.”
My mouth hangs open a beat, caught off guard by the venom in his response.
He takes a deep breath as if to calm himself. “I tried to get some food and water into her, kept her in my house last night because she’s too weak to be in the barn with the other dogs. We thought she would settle here. She seemed comfortable enough.” He smooths a palm through his hair, as if trying to tame it. “And then Reed let her out this morning, and she took off. I knew she wouldn’t survive another night out there, so I went looking for her. I followed her tracks all the way to the Hatchetts’ fence.”
I steal another glance at Howie. Is Tyler telling the truth, or is this a cover to save his own skin?
Howie gives me a one-shouldered shrug and a look that says he’s inclined to believe Tyler’s story of rescue.
Given the shape of the other dogs I’ve seen so far, I’m leaning toward the former as well. It wouldn’t be unheard of for someone to abandon an old dog that is no longer of use to them. Hell, people are vile enough to toss puppies into garbage bags. “She needs medical attention.”
“I’m aware of that—”
“I’ve started running tests already, but she’s going to need dental work and a special diet—”
“Sounds expensive.” Tyler smirks. “Have you tallied all that up yet? Got the invoice for me ready?”
I falter, taken aback by his insinuation. “This isn’t about me making money. It’s about what she needs.”
The grim amusement slides from his face. “I’m taking her to see Frank Hartley in Palmer first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll tell me what she needs.”
I can’t help the snort that escapes. “And you’re accusing me of seeing dollar signs.” Frank is a money-hungry ass who runs unnecessary tests to pad his billables and has misdiagnosed more than one animal.
“Hartley’s my veterinarian. He’s already treated the whole kennel, and at a better rate than I was quoted by others. Seems like a decent enough guy.”
The only reason Frank might have given Tyler a deal is because he wants his clinic’s name tied to a champion musher. Secondhand notoriety.
Tyler studies me a long moment before shifting his attention to Howie. “You can follow up with him if you want, but I promise, she’ll get the care she needs from a vet who isn’t on Hatchett’s payroll.”
My indignation flares. “I’m not on anyone’s payroll!”
“Aren’t you his veterinarian?”
“Yes, but—”
“She only got away a few hours ago, which means he called you and you dropped everything on a Sunday afternoon to trespass onto my property so you can build a case against me and take my dogs away. Do you do that for all your customers, or just the ones who have decent competition living next door?” His eyebrows arch in mock question.
I set my chin. “I take every report of animal abuse seriously.”
“That, she does,” Howie pipes up. “Marie’s got a bit of a reputation around here as a crusader. I swear, if she collected a buck for every time she helped someone out for free, she’d be flying around in her own private plane by now. Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you there’s no one more generous in all of Alaska.”
I flash an appreciative smile to Howie for his kind words, even as that term pricks at my chest. Crusader. That’s what Wren Fletcher used to call me. Sometimes I still have to remind myself that the kindly owner of Alaska Wild is gone.
“So, if I called up Dillon Wagner and asked him, he’d tell me that same thing?” Tyler asks.
“You know Dillon?” Howie’s voice is laced with surprise.
Wasilla’s chief of police.
“Yeah, we go way back. Same with Marshall Deeks. What about him? Would he say the same about your little crusader here?”
Marshall runs parks and rec for the Mat-Su Valley. I can’t believe this asshole is name-dropping, a not-so-subtle way of letting us know he may have just moved here but he has connections.
He’s not the only one. “Maybe we should call Wade Phillips to see what he thinks about this entire situation.” The race’s chief veterinarian and the man I did my surgical residency with. “Or Grant McManus. How about him?” The race marshal for the past seventeen years and one of my father’s best friends. “I’ve got him on speed dial. Should I call?” I slide my phone out of my pocket to make my obnoxious point.
Tyler pauses, his eyes skating across my features. There’s a haunted—almost sad—quality to them. “Marie Lehr. I know that name. You volunteer at the race.”
“A lot of veterinarians do.” It’ll be my tenth time doing it, and I’ve done everything from prerace dog prep to working the drop dog hubs to checkpoint care. Unease slips down my spine with the sudden recognition painted across his face, and where this conversation is likely going.
“I hear Skip Haygert would’ve won last year, but you made him withdraw to give Hatchett a chance.”
“I did not do that for Harry.” I feel my cheeks flush. “Skip’s dogs had a virus. They were ready to collapse. Two were dehydrated, one had frostbite. They needed to be pulled, so I pulled them.” Leaving him with only four dogs. Mushers need at least five running to the finish line.
Skip, a small-minded, fifty-year-old veteran of the race and three-time winner, did not agree with my assertion, especially not when he was leading with only seventy-seven miles left to Nome. As far as he was concerned, I had no business telling him how to run his team. But he didn’t win that fight. Harry couldn’t make up the time, though, and finished second.
After the race, with the backing of a veterinarian who happens to be a Haygert family friend, Skip filed a formal complaint, accusing me of being hostile and inexperienced and making bad judgment calls. He demanded I be removed from future race checkpoints.
Unfortunately for Skip, Wade sided with me.
Tyler tosses his gloves and balaclava onto his snowmachine’s seat, seemingly unbothered by the biting cold. “You were quick to make the call, weren’t you? A lot faster than some, from what I hear.”
“Some don’t have the guts to do what needs to be done,” I snap before I can stop myself. I’ve heard the odd rumor of volunteers “suggesting” a dog be pulled but not making note of it in the race log for fear of backlash in the community. “Plenty of dogs dropped in that race. Over two hundred.” For everything from exhaustion to injury to pneumonia. In most cases, it was the musher making the call for their dog’s sake.
Skip should have dropped his dogs without question, without argument. He should have slid into the checkpoint already aware that they were struggling. Good mushers are skilled at watching for the signs. But I know his type, and he would’ve kept them going the last seventy-seven miles.
If I had my way, he’d be banned from ever racing again.
Tyler reaches down to scratch the top of his dog’s head. “What do you think, Tank? Is someone getting defensive?”
I am getting defensive. I can’t help it, though. The fact that this guy—an outsider who moved to Alaska from a foreign country within the last year—has heard this story means Skip and his fanatical fan base are smearing my name around town.
“And now, here you are, trying to take out Hatchett’s competition for him again.” Tyler’s lip turns in a thoughtful frown. “Did you already call the ITC on me, or is that your next stop?”
I shake my head at this idiotic accusation. “I don’t care who wins that stupid race. All I care about are the dogs.” Animals who aren’t protected well enough by the state that lauds the sport they’re bred and trained for, who are deemed “lesser than” in the world of animal statutes.
Tyler’s expression tightens. “Stupid race, huh? I wonder what the co
mmittee would say if they heard how one of their volunteers really feels.”
I grit my teeth. He’s trying to get a rise out of me.
The secret truth is, despite being born and bred in Alaska where dog mushing is the state sport and to many, part of its identity, I’ve struggled to embrace the race itself. Sure, when I’m in the thick of the clamor, surrounded by enthusiastic volunteers, fans, and mushers, and witnessing the genuine excitement of the dogs, the thrill of the race can be captivating.
But there’s a reason these long-distance races are considered the most extreme in the world, with the Iditarod at the helm of that label. The dogs are running a hundred miles a day. They’re running in bitter temperatures, through blizzards and biting winds, along craggy hills, ice bridges, and through gorges. While they’re conditioned for the cold, and they tug at their harnesses with anticipation to run every day, they’re all frayed by the time they rest, curling up on their pile of straw to recuperate. Many don’t finish, arriving at checkpoints with issues from exhaustion to dehydration, frostbite, and injury.
When I treat those dogs, I hear the voice in my head that asks if they would sign themselves up to spend days running across our frigid state if they had another choice.
I’m not the only one conflicted. Mushing is a sport plagued with controversy. Fervent activist groups have made it their mission to raise alarms about the bad actors who use harsh training methods and culling practices, and the lack of state regulation that allows for some of this behavior to continue—an ugly side that makes my heart ache and my vision turn red with anger.
They’ve latched on to the worst of the worst in the community and amplified the horror stories, which are difficult to brush aside as one-offs, no matter how much a person may love the sport. Because one story of dead sled dogs found in a pile is enough for most people.
If they had their way, these anti-mushers would demolish the entire commercialized industry and bring an end to dogsledding. The reality is, there is too much love and too much tourism tied to this sport for that to happen. But their efforts haven’t been for naught. The Iditarod is a costly race to hold every year, and major corporate sponsors have been pulling their support in droves—whether because of the pressure or the economy, it’s hard to say. Likely a combination.
It’s not just the activists who are raising alarms. There is plenty of strife within the community itself, with mushers speaking out against those who give credibility to the horror stories, who they claim are willing to do anything to win. Some of the top mushers—labeled world-class athletes—have been called out as the worst perpetrators for harsh training methods, the overbreeding, and inhumane treatment in their bid to produce the best racing teams in the world. They’re criticized for running kennels that look more like farms, with over a hundred dogs and a revolving door of handlers to manage them, but little evidence of the musher’s daily involvement.
It makes plenty of people ask: In a sport where the relationship between the musher and the dogs is said to be “everything,” what kind of bond can these mushers have with their dogs?
The accused mushers vehemently deny the allegations, insisting their dogs are their family, that they’re being targeted by sour mushers and disreputable activists with an agenda. Maybe that’s true. Animal control officers like Howie, upon visiting the kennels, haven’t been able to find proof that matches photographic and video evidence floating around social media. These mushers keep going, with plenty of fans to charm and sponsors to help pay their bills.
But the mushing community has been pulling back the curtain in recent years, speaking out against unacceptable practices and demanding change. And while state laws are slow to respond, Iditarod organizers have made efforts to rewrite race rules to try to appease the concerns of everyone involved—activists, mushers, and fans.
And me? All I can do is make sure these dogs have an advocate and proper care. That’s why I’ve volunteered two weeks of my life each year for the past decade, so I can ensure the dogs aren’t suffering because their mushers have their sights set on the finish line. That’s why I’m standing on Tyler Brady’s property today.
My priority will always be the dogs, never the humans. If I had my way, all these kennels would go through more rigorous inspections, with fewer laws to protect the humans and more laws to protect the dogs. I would have the authority to walk into any of these places and walk out with whatever dog I felt would be better off elsewhere.
And secretly, if the Iditarod were canceled, I can’t say I’d be upset. The annual event may have started in honor of the great dogsled relay of 1925, a race to get serum to Nome to save children dying of diphtheria, but it has since turned into a media-heavy, high-stakes competition with plenty of prize money up for grabs.
But I know to keep that opinion to myself and my focus on the dogs. Neither the ITC, nor the mushing community, some of whom are my clients, would be too eager to have a volunteer veterinarian with such apathy for their beloved race.
I adjust my tone and meet Tyler’s stare. “I’m here because I care about the animals. The decent mushers appreciate my concern.” An unspoken challenge. Are you decent, Tyler?
His jaw ticks. “There’s no need for your concern here. You’ll never see dogs better cared for than mine.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“Because I know it’s the truth. I’d give you a tour, but I have better things to do.” A smug smile touches his lips. “And you need to run on over to report into Harry.”
“I’m not going to—” I cut off the denial. I don’t have to defend myself to this asshole.
“Yeah, sure, you’re not,” he mutters, his amusement slipping away, replaced by a hard, cold glare. “Now give me my dog back and get the hell off my property before I call the ITC and tell them you’re trespassing at my kennel and harassing me and my family.” He nods toward my boots. “See? Tank agrees.”
I look down in time to see the dog with its hind leg lifted and a stream of urine shooting out onto my pants. The scent of ammonia hits my nostrils a second later.
It’s not the first time a sled dog has peed on me—some of them can’t seem to help themselves—but that couldn’t have been planned more perfectly.
Howie, who has remained more of an observer up until now, sidles up to me, turning his back to Tyler. “We don’t have much of a case here, Marie,” he whispers. “Not unless we can prove this guy’s lying, and something tells me he’s isn’t. Meanwhile, we cut his chain and trespassed without any proof that the dog was his, besides Harry’s claims. This guy could be a real dick if he wants, and it sounds like he wants to be.”
“I know.” Getting fired from a volunteer position with the Iditarod would not only be embarrassing but it would also limit my access to animals who need me.
“I can stop by Frank’s next week and poke around a bit if you want? Make sure he’s treating her.”
“That would be helpful. Thanks, Howie.” Frank and I don’t agree on a lot of things—namely all the pro bono stuff I do that he says makes other vets look bad, and all the price gouging he does that infuriates me. He’d never give me details on Tyler’s dogs if I asked.
“Okay, so I’m gonna do us all a favor and hand the dog over to him, and consider this matter investigated and resolved.” Howie saunters over to the rumbling pickup to open the back cab. “Attagirl. Come on down.” He hauls the dog out and sets her gently on the ground.
Tyler fishes a treat from his pocket and whistles for her. She limps over, her tail wagging. She doesn’t seem afraid of him, at least.
“You have yourself a good Sunday afternoon there, Tyler!” Howie slides into the driver’s seat with a wave, as if he’s bidding farewell to a friend.
He leaves me standing in the cold with dog pee on my pants to face this guy alone. Thankfully, Tyler has all but dismissed me, dropped to his knees, a gentle hand on Nymeria’s head while he murmurs something that I can’t hear. At least he’s capable of kindness to som
eone.
The dog he called Tank hovers around them, sniffing the female with interest.
With one last glance around the property—is there a Mrs. Brady here? She wasn’t listed in the kennel licensing paperwork, from what I saw—I convince myself that I’ve done all I can. For now.
“I started her on amoxicillin. Tell Frank to call me if he has any questions or wants the test results.” No point running the same tests twice, even if Tyler deserves to pay for them. Though, knowing Frank, he’d bill Tyler, anyway.
I turn to head back to the truck.
“Not even an apology, huh?” Tyler calls out.
I pause, the thought of uttering those words sour on my tongue. But does Tyler deserve to hear them? “I don’t take kindly to being accused of ulterior motives,” I say instead.
“Probably as kindly as I take to being accused of animal abuse.”
“I never accused you.” Not officially. “Besides, I won’t apologize for looking out for these dogs.” That’s the only reason I’m here. Someone neglected this poor girl, even if it wasn’t him.
“Did Harry mention that he showed up here when I moved in?” Tyler’s fingers stroke behind Nymeria’s ear. “He came to tell me not to bother starting up any kind of touring or breeding business, seeing as his family has cornered that market around here.”
“He didn’t mention that, no.” Friendly meet ’n’ greet, my ass. What was Harry thinking?
Tyler smirks. “He’s lucky I have no interest in a bunch of strangers traipsing all over my property and near my dogs. But do me a favor, will you? When you stop by his place to give him the good news, you know, that he’ll still have to lose to me in March—”
I roll my eyes.
“Let him know that I wasn’t planning on breeding to sell, but you’ve helped me change my mind. Tank here would love to see some of his pups in the Iditarod one day.” He ruffled the dog’s head. “What do you think? Will mushers around here want my dogs?” The haughty smile that curls his lips tells me the question is rhetorical.
