Interesting. Usually mushers are all over any chance to talk about themselves and their dogs, hoping to attract local sponsorships to help cover the steep costs of running a team. Harry posts videos on social media at least once a week of himself “educating” people on the world of mushing. He knows a lot about the sport, I will give him that. It’s his delivery that sometimes ruffles feathers.
“It was just him and that kid, Reed, from what I could see. Hard to run a competitive team without more help than that.” Mushers rely on their family, friends, and community during racing season. They need help in Nome, at the end of the race, and someone back in Anchorage, ready to collect dropped dogs. A guy with Tyler’s experience would know that.
Dad collects his spoon in a futile attempt to find any missed crumbs. “He must know someone around here.”
“He was name-dropping the police chief and the head of parks and rec, but I can’t see them playing handler. Maybe he was just bullshitting to try to scare us?”
“Who knows.” Dad tosses his spoon into the bowl with a yawn, giving up.
“I should head home. It’s getting late.” I reach down to scratch Bentley’s head. “What do you think? You want to come with me?” Sometimes I borrow him for the night. As much as I would love to come home to a dog every night, my lifestyle doesn’t allow for that.
Dad sighs, and I know he’s about to unload heavy thoughts. “Look, Marie, I know you’re doing what’s right, but you need to be more careful. You can’t have mushers going to the ITC about you. That mess with Skip last year stirred up a lot of noise for Wade.”
“He agreed with me.”
“Yeah, but he’s also gotten a lot of flak for it from a couple of the veteran volunteers who thought you were too hard on Skip.”
“One of Skip’s dogs developed pneumonia after the race.” It recovered—thank God—but maybe it wouldn’t have had it run those last seventy-seven miles.
Dad raises his hands in surrender. “Wade agrees, and he wants veterinarians like you there to make sure those dogs stay healthy. But there have been complaints—”
“From whom? More than just Skip?”
“One or two folks, saying you favored the Hatchetts. It’s baloney. I know you didn’t. Wade knows you didn’t. But Harry has rubbed some people around here the wrong way, and they’re looking for any way to hit back. You’re his vet.”
“I’m also Jed Carling’s and Darlene Wilcox’s vet.” Though they don’t show up at my clinic demanding I pull strings and pay visits. No one is as big a pain in my ass as the Hatchetts are on the regular, but no one else makes me as much. Their kennel is a busy business, and it pays well to be at Harry’s beck and call, as much as I despise it sometimes.
Dad lifts his hands again. “You asked what I heard, so I’m passing it along. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Those people can shove their accusations up their asses.”
“Funny, isn’t that what you told Skip to do?” Dad chuckles. “Wade took you on as a rookie, and he’s thrilled to have you back every year. But he’s been doing that job for more than two decades, and it’s getting harder, with the sponsors dropping and all this noise from these activists. He’s not going to be doing it for much longer, and I know you’d be really unhappy if the person who replaces him doesn’t call you back.”
And there are enough veterinarians applying. People come from all over the world to volunteer.
“A lot of people still live for this race.”
“I know, Dad.” Tour companies that charge thousands per person to give tourists “the Iditarod experience,” villages that swell to two and three times their regular population, restaurants that earn a hefty share of their annual revenue in the first two weeks of March … they’d feel the absence of the race not just in their spirit but also their wallets.
“Locals are fed up with these anti-musher folks in their tiny New York and LA condos tellin’ Alaskans how to live. Now, if they start hearing that one of their own is sabotaging and threatening mushers, well … that could hurt you.”
Dad has always been keen on protecting our reputation, even more so as each new veterinarian moves into the valley.
I weave my fingers through Bentley’s mane, the simple effort soothing. “I think that guy’s threats were empty.” I hope they are. “He was just angry with how it all went down.”