Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
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 Finnmarksløpet 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?”
“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.”