Stinky, lead dog, 2006–2020

Stinky running in single lead at the 2017 Dogtown Winter Derby

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Stinky (right) and Wicked (left) in lead at 2020 Crystal Springs Race

Praises and Lamentations of an Excellent Dog

Originally written December 9, 2020

Stinky came to my kennel seven years ago when I was re-emerging into the PNW dog scene. I was 25 at the time and had been at my “real job” long enough to have an income to throw at something so cash-burning like dog mushing. I needed a command leader, was familiar with Stinky and his work ethic, so the moment I found out he needed a new home, I got sign off from my dad (who was a former musher himself and takes care of the dogs when I’m at work). Stinky was a stoic little black Osmar dog whose named used to be “Garlic”. He had a short coat, thick black nails, the tip of his ear missing, and a scarred lip suggesting he was a scrapper in his early and intact days. I think his black coat made him appear very stone faced, but he was aggressively affectionate to anyone, including his canine peers. It was not uncommon for him to lick the faces of his favorite friends, usually Petunia and Timber. He liked to lay on anything that resembled a bed, and sometimes that included a pile of clothes or towels. I have countless videos of him rolling around on his back in the grass. He liked wearing his blue jacket, which we always spoiled him with. Because of his easy demeanor, he quickly became my dad’s favorite. He didn’t demand attention like the other more boisterous dogs, but he had his own way of asking for attention in between the chaos of his younger canine counterparts. Stinky had an Achilles injury that deemed him unfit for Iditarod, so he spent some years primarily running tours. Whether I realized it or not, I needed a dog I could learn from. I used to chock up his reluctance to do certain things as simplistic stubbornness, but like many wise old lead dogs, there was a purposeful rationale influencing the things he did and didn’t do. It took me years to understand that, and to respect the ways in which you communicate to a lead dog, let alone any dog (especially ones that came from far more experienced kennels). Early on during a near disastrous training run, I broke the holy grail of things of which you do not break, and lost the team. I was sick, running with a dim and dying headlamp in the dark, on a new sled on frozen unbroken trail. To put it simply, I was inexperienced and irresponsible. After backtracking up the trail for quite some time, I saw pairs of eyes darting back at me through the dark, and rather than running back to the truck, Stinky led the team back around the loop to come back and get me. “We should probably go back and get her,” is a phrase I pretended ran through his head. He could’ve ran back to the truck, but didn’t. This was embarrassing and above all, a humbling moment for me.

Stinky and Timber on one of our summer drives

We spent many miles together, on and off the sled. During summer months, he was one of my go-to truck dogs because of his natural inclination to stay close to me or the truck when exploring mountainous logging roads (some would call that being clingy, but I appreciated that trait after dealing with Siberians when I was young). If you met Stinky, he probably greeted you by jumping up and clinging to you, scratching your arms or jacket in the process. Camping out at Camp K during race weekends, Stinky was one of the special ones that slept in the tent with me. On one occasion, he thought sleeping on top of me on my cot was the most comfortable sleeping arrangement. One of last training runs, I was on top of the north end of Lyman Hill navigating some steep and unbroken trail. That part of the hill is totally exposed and gets a direct hit from the freezing wind coming through the Fraser River valley. The dogs had been there enough during fall, but I wondered how they’d handle unbroken snowy conditions. Stinky often ran in single lead, and this occasion was no exception. He led the team up and over a six foot drift, and back onto the trail that traversed behind Lyman Hill. We don’t get many drifts in this part of WA, and I was impressed with his lack of hesitation. Maybe a throwback to some training with Scott White, a musher who previously trained Stinky.

Stinky’s demise was a cancerous mass that the vet thought was operable as indicated by x-rays, but was mistaken during surgery. I received a call from my vet while I was scooping poop, a couple hours after I dropped him off for he procedure. He informed me that the mass was in his ribs, and had possibly spread to his thoracic cavity. To sew him back up would put him in greater pain. The vet was frank. “If it was my dog, I wouldn’t sew him back up.” By then I was shaking and my voice was beginning to break. Through intense sobbing I told my mom and dad I had to go back to the vet to say goodbye. I was angry and frustrated that I was not allowed a proper goodbye, but the outcome would not have been different no matter who the vet. Stinky was sedated and wired up. I cradled his head as he laid on the operating table. He passed at around 1:30 yesterday afternoon at 14 years-old. Our earthly parting was abrupt. To say my heart is shattered is an understatement.

He was the last of my calm and thoughtful working dogs, but of those qualities, he was king. I could praise him for days. I don’t know if I can quite put to words how sled dogs, like Stinky, are beyond simple canines. “Doggos”, “pooches”, “puppies” – all cutesy terms that neglect to capture their dignity and purpose. Yes, they are family, but they are mentors and teachers. The things I’ve learned being with them, around them, and training them, are things I’ve applied to my life beyond dogs. It’s this world of sled dogs that has pulled me out of a depression where at one point in my life, the only solution to this nagging and nonsensical pain and self-loathing, was to take my own life. I hope soon I can rebuild my kennel in his honor, and in honor of the many dogs who have come before, that show us how to put every ounce of ourselves into everything we do, and to ultimately, love unconditionally every breathing moment. On the loss of our canine companions, a good friend said, “if I had a chance to do it all over again, I would — ten times over I would.” That rang in my head on my drive back to the house after Stinky’s passing. I asked another friend this evening, do you feel like you love dogs more than most people? A resounding yes. They are honest and they are without prejudice. This morning my dad tearfully expressed his mourning for Stinky, and how he would like a photo print made of him in his honor. I comb through hundreds of photos over the span of seven years and think of how goddamn lucky I am to have the dogs that I did — to bring me out of despair and to inspire me to explore.

Stinky now dons his silver harness and joins Timber and Petunia.