The Day I Killed My Dog

  We had this husky, SuSu named it Handout, after she sort of rescued it.  It had been abandoned by its previous owner, who had given it a name meaning “shit” in some Native language or other.  He was nuts.  (I mean the dog, but I understand the previous owner was, too.)  He was wild.  Take him indoors, he’d wreck the place.  He loved to bark, so we kept him out towards the back of the propery where he would warn us of approaching bears and mose.  He ate several doghouses.  Many times, I would go about my business, see him out there alone and think I really ought to take him for a walk or at least go  out to pet him.  I was always too busy.

Years passed, we moved across the highway to relatively palatial digs (a leaky, moldy 30-year old trailer, far superior to the squalid hovel that had been our previous domicile).  Handout came over, too. And got old.

He was going deaf and blind and arthritic.  Sometimes you could walk right by  him and he would not even look up.  His winter coat failed to grow in right and he was cold all the time.  He slept most of the time, and cried  when he was awake.  When he stopped eating, that did it.  It was time to put him out of his misery.  So I got one of my .22s and went out to him.  I petted him and and told him what a good dog he was and how much I loved him.  Then I put a bullet in his brain.  The last thing he did before he died was lick my hand.  I think he understood.  I hope to god he did.

Blinded with tears, I loaded his body onto a sled and hauled it out to the muskeg so his body could go back to the earth.  Sometimes I go out there to look at his bones.  Rest in peace, pal.  I’ll see you soon.

Well, the 2003 Willow Winter Carnival is history , and I am happy to say that the universe came through after all, just like I told it to.  That is, a week or so ago, I told the universe that I chose to gross at least $500 for the event.  Since the first three day’s sales ranged from disappointing to dismal, I knew what I had to do.  I slashed prices–some of my best knives were going for 50% off, jewelry 66% off.  I did extra CNS stimulants so I could maintain the high energy level needed to sell, sell, sell.  I has signs posted prominantly–ASK  ME ABOUT MY SPECIALS, and  KIDS; KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF THE KNIVES.  (Thanks to SuSu for doing the signs.)  And I was much more aggressive–EVERYONE who came by , or even slowed down, got my sales pitch, which started with a sincere smile and “I’m not going to burden you with a big sales pitch, but. . . .”  And then give them the pitch.  And it worked.  In one 45-minute period alone, I took in over $100.  Of course, it wasn’t all me.

There was a bigger crowd there than usual–everyone who had just heard about it after the first weekend  was there.  The drawing for the snowmachine was that day, so everyone who had bought raffle tickets was there.  And they had money.  To raise funds for the community center, they had a pie and cake auction–one confection went for $100!  I plotzed!  And several of the pies that looked good but hardly spectacular drew $50.  Boy.  Anyone who can drop $50 for a pie must not be missing many meals, or anything else for that matter.  But I digress.

The bottom line is that I went into it wanting to make enough money so we can go to town and get a month’s worth of food for us without having to borrow any money, and in that I succeeded.

.

.

.Notes on ilustrations:  The dog pull pictured has a mere 350 pounds–a healthy St Bernard can pull over 1000!  The chainsawing is sort of an action shot–the slab is in mid-air.  The cross-cut saw here is the type that old-timers call a misery whip.  Even when it works properly, it is grueling and about as ergonomic as a brick mattress–when things go wrong, the saw goes Spriong! and your back goes out.  I can’t think of anything to say about the one-dog sled, except that it looks like fun.  Credits:  I don’t know who took the pics, they are from the 2001 carnival and they were being given away.  Many thanks to SuSu for scanning them and walking me through the process of making them appear here.

.

We live roughly halfway between Willow and Talkeetna–23 miles from each.  And the difference in the two small towns is striking to me as a Libran, and scholar without portfolio of social trends and small-town craziness.  In a word, Talkeetna is poetry, Willow is prose.  Talkeetna is birkenstocks, Willow is bunny boots (altho you do see  some bbs in T).  Talkeetna has lots of poets, artists, and singers;  Willow has the Lions Club.  Talkeetna has many historical buildings, officially on the Federal Register of Historical Places or whatever;  Willow has a really big Texaco station with adjoining deli, general store, video rental, and liquor store.  I love both places, and I’m sure that many locals would feel I was being unfair to one or the other.  (  When I first got here, my take was that Talkeetna is full of people who are inordinately pleased with themselves for no apparent reason, and Willow was sincere and painfully ernest, like a young Mormon on his first house call.)  Be that as it may, we are in the midst of the 2003 Willow Winter Carnival.

Most of the affair takes place over two weekends, and is located in and around the Willow Comunity Center.  Last weekend, they had the dog pulls, the most-abused Carhartts contest, and music by the Air Force Band (among other things).  They had to cancel the sled dog race due to lack of snow.  (Global warming is real, ask anyone up here whose house is tilting because the permafrost is melting.)

Activities this weekend included an ice-cream eating contest.  Entrants are not allowed to use their hands.  (This particular  event strikes me as more than a little weird, for several reasons.  For one thing, since 60 of Americans and 40 percent of American kiddies are overweight, do we really want to encourage people–give them prizes, even–for scarfing down ice cream the fastest.  Two, gluttony is one of the traditional deadly sins.  What next?  An envy competition?)  They have classes based on age, and you have not lived until you have seen some grizzled, bearded Alaskan dude going fave-first into a big plate of ice cream.  And speaking of bearded. . . .

Today they had the best beard contest.  I am a three-time also-ran; that is, I have three second-place ribbons in a place of honor as we speak.  This time, I wanted the gold.  So to speak.  I had decided that I wouldn’t bother if Dave Totten (a local artist, former teacher, and really nice guy) entered, since he beat me once or twice before.  I was heartened to learn that 1) Dave was not enetering, and 2) only three other guys had entered.  So I coughed up my dollar (that was a first–last years, no entry fee) and took to the community center stage.  Next surprise–the judge would be a professional barber.  In past years, the carnival king and queen would judge, or else they would go by applause.  So she duly felt each mass of facial foliage, checked throats for wildage, and named the winner.  And there was the final surprise–no first, second, third this year.  This year, it was winner take all, “all” being a gift certificate for  (what else?) a hair cut and beard trim.

Of course, for me the big thing is the vending.  I got my tables ($50 for both weekends) and set out my knives and jewelry and CDs and DVD and knife sharpeners.  Business sucked.  Big time.  Last weekend I grossed less than $175, for maybe 20 hours work and a 100 miles of driving on  an icy, dangerous two-lane highway.

Today was worse.  My profit today would maybe pay for a tank of gas and a jug of Heet.  Time after time, someone would pick up a knife and say, gee, I wish I had $30, or $20 or whatever.  I hope to do better tomorrow, mainly since I intend to slash my prices and sell the jewelry for half-price, or about what I get when I wholesale it in quantity, and mark the knives down so much that one would be a fool to pass up my deals.