Intentional Relationships Are Not Just for Humans
Joy, commitment and grief are shared
This is a story of all the things in life: love, ritual and death. A series of united choices. And a husky, who was the best dog.
Tarsis had no time for regret in our decade long relationship. He was happy, or he made his point. He refused to accept criticism. It wasn’t an effective direction. Our relationship was not love at first sight. It took time to work out each other’s language. Tarsis always had a reason. He was the living embodiment of his husky ancestors, doing what they wanted to do since forever. And yet he did everything that I ever asked once he understood the purpose. I promised to hold him his whole life, and he agreed to that as part of our family.
We lived that expectation. Tarsis did not bind himself to others easily. Our time together started when he was number 17 on a 16 dog Iditarod team. From our couch we watched his musher race the 1000 miles. He was quite fine with this. Tarsis was the most athletic husky and could literally run for days with his perfect stride. But what he loved to do was really run. Flat-out through fields and forests and his beloved mountains. He made mountains into gentle inclines. You can’t control a run like that, you have to know it wants to come back to you.
In a field by our cabin was the first time I really saw Tarsis run. He had been with us for about two months at that point, always on a leash or in a harness. We were celebrating graduation with a late-night picnic and champagne. I had an inkling that he was ready. There isn’t any in-between, with huskies it can be a crap-shoot. The song of the trail is strong and they are obliged to follow where it leads. But I could see it in his eyes that we might have enough of a bond. I unhooked him. Chaos and joy erupted. Tarsis tore around the field chasing, playing and doing donuts with our other dog. It was pure happiness in motion.
Those moments cement families. My partner would return periodically that summer after doing fieldwork across south-east Alaska. At first he thought Tarsis didn’t like him, eventually he realized he was being kicked out of the family. Tarsis refused to accept any less than the willing presence necessary for a pack to coalesce. Packs could restructure but commitment was a choice. This became the measuring stick for all our family expansions. When the fit is right our hearts can always grow. Decisiveness was a key part of life with Tarsis. It was beautiful to watch him use it as he ran through the forest. And required patience as he viewed other people with suspicion. It took a long time for him to understand the universal sound of connection.
Tarsis’s initial coping strategy was to hide. He found most people overwhelming and deafening. Our coffee table became his dog house when people would come over. His next tactic was a lack of acknowledgment. Greetings were reserved and a sign of trust. We were not rescuing Tarsis from anything — he simply had strong opinions about the world. His turning point came when we had a colleague from Scandinavia stay with us. Her Swedish stories touched him. Tarsis responded by bestowing on her our normative family cuddles. This was the first of his many selective relationships. He gravitated to people whose currents of steadiness ran deep in their sea of emotions.
As a working husky, he was trained to run in a team. In dog sledding, almost all leadership is reversed. The musher is in charge from behind. Although the lead dogs steer, the entire team needs a shared culture to commit. Tarsis was a master of this within our pack. When it actually gets hard, you need to be ready to work. He knew he was running long distances. Without fail he had one glorious day a year where he was the best puller. The rest of the time he participated until everyone else started to run low. Then his special sauce kicked in and he would lead getting it done. He displayed this every day of his life including making his last trip of our driveway at a run. His deep wisdom carried him gracefully to the end.
Tarsis was the best adventure dog. He loved being mountain fresh from dew on the alpine bushes or after a stream crossing. He had a weakness for marmots, caribou, and squirrels. He was our dog most likely to survive a zombie apocalypse. He knew how to chase, how to check things out, and when to exit a situation. I traveled more miles with him than anyone else. We trained for marathons, raced when courses were fun enough and muddled through fatigue and injury. He loved when we rode our mountain bikes on single track. It was impressive to watch him rip over rolls and banked corners. As an athlete myself, I was humbled to watch him in action. He reminded me how life manifests itself based on your approach.
Daily he demonstrated you can be a leader without being the loudest. You can make your own games anytime with the things around you. Play with your imaginary friend to get someone’s attention. Know the comfortable places to nap. Rotate through them. Spend quality time with people. Demand scratches. Explore the woods. When a new generation comes along, demonstrate the proper way to cuddle. Assertively in front of them. Make eye contact to emphasize your point. Keep it while doing what you want to do. Be the best deeker. Own your prance. Clearly prefer good food. Take care of yourself. Look over the next ridge even if you decide not to go there. Always come back to your family.
My parents commented that Tarsis seemed to become a different dog over the years. To me, he remained our dog most in tune with what he wanted — but he got more savvy in aligning expectations. As our pack expanded, Tarsis passed this ability on. It was most noticeable when things like porcupines, moose and overflow happened quickly. Environments in our home of Alaska are both stunning and wild. There is a big difference in how you need to react between a moose who wasn’t bothered by your presence versus one who was clearly irritated. We both cued off each other. If either of us was startled, the other’s job was to stay calm and sort the situation out. He was my steadfast dance partner, complete with eye contact, as we naturally moved together.
At some point, most dogs start to get old. Tarsis never experienced this. He gradually shortened his runs and stopped pulling in the team. He was happy to substitute free-running to his heart’s content. He became adept at riding four-wheelers and snow machines when trails became too long. His dad lived until 18 and at close to 14 he was on the same trajectory. This winter he started to limp. He had pulled a nail out last winter so we speculated it was bothering him again when the cold set in. Then we thought he pulled a shoulder jumping off our bed. One night, our younger dogs bumped him and he started to scream. The next day our veterinarian diagnosed osteosarcoma in his left humerus.
I was devastated. There were many tears. And then we had another two and a half months together. Osteosarcoma is aggressive, the best treatment option for dogs is currently a vaccine under development. Tarsis was an otherwise healthy husky so I held out hope that he would make his own odds. We were regimented about his pain medication which he accepted as long as it was covered in bacon grease. He was still running around our yard the last weekend of his life. He put up with all my front-loaded grief with his normal stoicism. It was just another non-optimal life event. When we knew it was time, when he could no longer sleep a restful sleep, we arranged to have a veterinarian friend over to our home.
On his last night, we all slept around him, so that he knew he wasn’t alone. We went to the river that afternoon to bask in the sunshine. Tarsis repeatedly bathed in the mountain stream. He cuddled one last time with our dog who had been his steadfast companion. She maintained their relationship dynamic and reminded him not to step on her. We went down to our freezer for a salmon snack and I carried him to the woods. I told him I loved him and he had been the best dog. I would hold him forever even though I knew he was being called back to his ancestors.
The whole family gathered on our deck. All the dogs ran around and stopped by and greeted Tarsis, lying with me on his bed. When it was time, everyone lay down and was still. We all bore witness to his energy passing from his physical body. I wrapped him in a piece of one of the blankets from our bed. And then he was gone. His name still resonates with the emotions his presence generated. I hear rustling in the woods and my eyes scan for him. We reminisce over all our good times and how he was very much his own dog. We miss his smile, his smooshy face, his soul.
We all grieve in our own ways. It was never going to be enough time. And why the sadness feels like such a needed contrast to the stark joy and contentment I felt when we were together.
It ends in the stillness. At first, there is an absence of noise. The quiet sharpens the senses. Sleep comes with dreams. The sounds of breath bring the new day. Birds intensify their songs with the light. I am awake and he is with us, just a fork ahead on the trail.
