A raw November wind tugs at bits of straw protruding from the entrance to her house. Her tether, once capable of holding her energetic spirit in check, lays limp now. In the spring, I'll move her name tag. Paul asked me to mount it on a wooden trail marker. It seems fitting. For three years of racing, she lead the team, searching out the markers to keep them on the trail. Bringing them safely into the next checkpoint. It is still hard to believe though, to accept that her race is over. As inviting as the bed of straw inside may be, Zanadoo will no longer warm the safe confines of her house, or our lives.

Friday, November 8. Paul had left for a routine training run. His full time carpentry job delegating this daily occurrence to the hours of evening darkness. Concerned about the icy trail conditions, he carefully placed booties on all of the dogs' feet to protect them. Laying his heavy gloves in the sled, a nagging feeling in the back of his mind caused him to also pack his cellular phone this evening - a first time occurrence, and something that may have saved his life.

The run was going well. The nearly two feet of snow on the ground, although becoming packed on this outgoing trail, provided cover to pass over rough terrain. Beneath the illumination of his headlight, Paul and the team moved quietly along through the cold, moonless night. The familiar flow of the trail swept ahead of them, the dogs' breath creating a light fog as they continued on.

The beauty of this came to an abrupt halt however, when Paul's headlight reflected the eyes of a large cow moose and her calf on the trail ahead. Realizing the potential danger these powerful ungulates posed to his team, he quickly stopped the team and sunk the metal snow hook deep in the trail to secure the sled. Stepping off the runners, he expected to encourage the moose of the trail by briefly waving his arms and raising his voice. It is nearly routine, and generally is enough to send a moose into the woods, thus allowing the team to pass by. Moose however, are anything but routine.

Perhaps she had been asked to leave the trail one too many times. Or it may have been loose dogs in the area that had been harassing her to the breaking point. Whatever the catalyst, the animal wasn't looking for a way out of the situation, and instead of fleeing to the woods, turned on Paul and his team. Laying her ears back, the cow immediately charged into the team - hooves slashing at the defenseless dogs. Attacking the dogs in the lead position first, she then proceeded to work her way the entire length of the team, stomping and slashing with her hooves as she went. The yearling calf meantime, headed directly for Paul. Having nothing with which to defend himself, he yanked the snow hook up and intended to use it as a weapon. At the last instant, the calf veered off. The cow continued to work her way back up through the team, crushing the defenseless and terrified dogs beneath her as she went.

Paul got behind the moose and reached the lead dogs just after her last kick. He picked up the unconscious leader that had fallen immediately under the initial onslaught of sharp hooves. Tucking the dog, which he wasn't sure was dead or alive, into his jacket, he crowded the rest of the team behind himself. With his body as a shield, Paul stood between what seemed to be the devil its self, and his screaming, injured dog team. His only thought was that the moose just leave, just don't come back.

The pair of moose stood about 10 feet away now. The bulky cow displaying all of the attributes of an enraged domestic bull. Snorting and pawing at the snow, she kept her ears laid back and hackles up. She would take one or two steps, then snort and paw some more. When she had moved to a distance of about 20 feet, Paul made his way back to the sled. The moose were making no effort to leave the area, and there was no way he could get the team past them. His only hope of safety for his team lay inside the sled - his cellular phone.

The call came in to me as I was walking out the door to meet the team on its expected return to the lot here. "We've been stomped by a moose and we can't get by her. Bring a gun." As long as I live, I don't think I will forget the absolute terror I felt at that moment. It probably seemed like an eternity to Paul, but I flew down the road to reach him as fast as I could. The moose was still in the trail when I arrived, and it wasn't until I directed the headlights in her face and revved the engine up that she finally left the area. I loaded the gun and headed towards Paul.

The terrified screams of the bruised and beaten dogs filled the air. I found Paul, the unconscious lead dog cradled in his jacket, trying to calm and organize the tangled mass of dogs. Blood covered the snow, which had been churned up in the attack, creating a loose sand effect. A wave of nausea and emotion swept over me as I realized the extent and severity of the obvious injuries. I leaned over a young female boasting an angry gash above her eye. Droplets of blood seeped into her fur. She leaned against me, and licked my face. Making sense of chaos, Paul remained calm; although lines of anguish creased his face. Trying our best to quickly assess the damage done, we loaded two of the worst off animals into the truck. The others, although certainly bruised and frightened, were still capable, if not eager, to move on.

Paul decided then, to bring the balance of the team home on their own accord. Slowly guiding them the short distance back, he was in the yard before I reached home with the truck. Although somewhat better able to judge the severity of the damage under the lights in the dog lot, the sheer number of dogs injured made it difficult. The ones bearing open, bleeding wounds were the most obvious. But we would sooner learn, that it was the hidden injuries that did the most damage.

A young, two year old female named Suzie was rushed in for emergency surgery as soon as the rest of the team was unharnessed and taken care of. The sharp edge of the moose' hoof had laid open the muscle on Suzie's back leg all the way down to the bone. Griz, the lead dog that had been knocked unconscious, was now alert and able to handle small amounts of liquid. The veterinarian had suggested that we keep him home and watch him, rather than further stress him by bringing him into a strange setting. The rest of the team, most of them looking bruised and cut up, were obviously suffering mentally. In this regard, I was especially concerned about the other dog that had been running in the lead position, Zanadoo. Out on the trail, she had been the most eager dog to move on, and had nearly pulled the rest of the distance home by her determination alone. Now she seemed to be somewhat in a state of shock. I wondered if she didn't have some kind of injury to her spine, as she walked funny. But since she wasn't visibly bleeding, and ate the warm food I offered her, and with the other animals still needing my attention, I decided to let Paul know, and see how she was later.

In retrospect, I realize that the damage had been done within the initial few seconds of the attack, and that nothing would change the outcome. But the guilt still prevails. For it wasn't until the early morning that the reason for Zanadoo's unusual posture and mannerisms was fully comprehended. With an ash gray color to his face, Paul came into the house Saturday morning and told me he was taking her in to the vet. "I think she is done" were the hollow words that still echo in my ears.

X-Rays revealed her collapsed lung and crushed ribs. Sheered off at the spine and disjointed at the bottom, the bones had been crushed with one fatal blow from the moose. Less than a 50% chance of making it through the extensive surgery, not including the possibility of infection later. If she did survive, she would never have the capacity to be a performance athlete again. I cannot imagine the pain Paul must have experienced at having to decide to do the humane thing. Knowing the love he has for the dogs, the thousands of miles they have traveled together, and the strong bond they share, it had to be incredibly difficult. Zanadoo was the first real lead dog Paul ever had. She lead for him in every race he ever ran, and with the exception of the Iditarod, finished every one. Through frigid temperatures, head winds and blizzards, she had kept the team on the right path....from one trail marker to another, until the last checkpoint had been reached.

She looked as though she was sleeping when Paul carried her to the grave he had dug. The cold wind gently moving the hair on her limp tail. As he gently laid her into the cold ground, tears stained her shiny coat. Zanadoo had reached her final checkpoint. To say "Thank you" to one who had given so much seemed inadequate, so in the end I wished her happy trails.

teamfan@aspenhollowlodging.com