Running Wild(Wild #3)(18)

Soon, it’s just Dad and I in the kitchen, with Yukon curled up next to Dad’s feet as he savors the last of his dessert.

“Jim called me yesterday. Told me to get you to increase your fees.”

“Really? He’s going to you now?”

“Because you won’t listen to him.”

“I did increase them.”

“That was three years ago, Marie.”

I’ve already had this conversation—twice since the fall. “Maybe Jim should decrease his accounting fees.”

Dad snorts.

“I’m fine. Overhead was a bit higher this year, and I have a few outstanding client bills that will get paid. But I’m fine.” I haven’t been flying out west nearly as much. I don’t have a mortgage to worry about, but there’s always something to repair or replace. Next up is my ultrasound machine, a fossil that needed to go five years ago. I could buy a new truck with what it’s going to cost, and the bank isn’t keen on lending me more. Thankfully, my father is willing to cosign for the loan.

Growing up with a veterinarian for a father, I was well versed in the realities of this career path before I submitted my application to vet school. I knew I wasn’t getting into this business for the paycheck, especially where I live. Still, sometimes I look at my life—at the amount of schooling I needed and the exorbitant debt I accumulated, at the nights I’ve spent curled up next to a sick patient I didn’t want to leave alone—and wonder if I would’ve been better off going to med school.

A job as a family practitioner might have been easier. It certainly would’ve been more lucrative. Here, I do it all—diagnostics, surgery, medicine, dental care—rather than simply write a referral, and I can only charge what people can afford. In the world of animal medicine, there is no government assistance, and few have insurance.

But humans have never interested me, not like animals do.

And when I watch those humans waffle about paying for treatment to help their pet, or when they tell me I’m wrong, or when they decide they don’t want to be in the room while I euthanize their family member and I’m the last face it sees … those days dealing with humans are especially frustrating.

“I’m not gonna tell you how to run your clinic,” Dad adds quietly, “even though it was my clinic and I ran it well for many years. But you are a highly skilled veterinarian, Marie. A certified surgeon. You could be working in the hospital in Anchorage, charging three times as much with all the education you’ve accumulated. No one’s going to think less of you for charging enough to cover your bills. And maybe doing less of the things you don’t get paid to do, like freezing your butt off in a tent for two weeks every March.”

“My sleeping bag is quite warm, actually,” I counter. And I’m usually sweating as I run around, tending to the dogs that come through the Iditarod checkpoints.

My dad groans at my flippant answer. “At least I can tell Jim I tried.”

My thoughts drift back to my day, that twinge of worry lingering. “So, what do you know about this musher, anyway? What have you heard?” Dad’s still well connected around the borough and the sled dog community. Aside from his longstanding friendships with Wade and Grant, he plays poker on Thursdays with Bill Compton, who writes feature stories for the Mat-Su Valley paper. And there are still plenty of mushing families who call his home number for a second opinion from time to time.

“This new Finnish guy?”

“He’s not Finnish. He’s American. Lower forty-eight.” Did Tyler grow up in Alaska and move away, only to move back? That’s what Jonah did. Or did he come for a visit and decide to stay? He wouldn’t be the first to do that.

Dad pushes his empty dessert bowl away. “His family in Finland is well known in the industry over there, mushers themselves. They have a reputation for taking good care of their dogs.”

“That would’ve been helpful to know before I went there,” I mutter.

“It would’ve been helpful to ask me before you went there.” He flashes a scolding look. “He won the Finnmarksl?pet last year.”

I’d heard about his racing—and winning—Europe’s longest dogsled race. “So he knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, I think he knows.” Dad chuckles. “Bill wanted to do a little exposé on him for the paper, help drum up excitement. The guy wouldn’t answer any questions. He said he doesn’t like the spotlight.”

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?”