Running Wild(Wild #3)(12)

Tyler’s expression tightens. “Stupid race, huh? I wonder what the committee 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.”