They watch, not with the feral eyes of the hunter,

their common ancestor, the wolf,

but with eyes ablaze with anticipation,

eyes of yellow, blue or coffee brown.

The arctics, descendents of the Mahalamut,

the Inuit, Sammayed or Checki Siberian,

Sled dogs; bred to work and born to run.


Twenty-eight almond shaped eyes follow her every move.

Twenty-eight pricked and well-furred ears

swivel, tilt forward, lie flat against the head

and once more stand in attention

as unspoken signs are silently read.

Each lean, eager, coiled spring of a body

poises for action, ready to leap forward

when given the signal. For they are:

Sled dogs, bred to work and born to run.


Picketed in place, fourteen dogs

stand in turn for inspection.

She searches fifty-six feet

for cracks or sign of weakness.

Salve is applied, booties slid into place,

harness taken from the truck and

each dog dances a jig in the snow

or shakes with excitement as teal and black,

the team’s colors, slip over each head,

harness is adjusted to lie flat on

a thick double coat,and not rub raw

muscle, skin, and bone in the days,

miles and weather to come.

Harnessed, booted, inspected and ready,

Sled dogs, bred to work, born to run.


The line moves forward as team

after team reaches the start.

A shot rings out and lean,

wild, silent bodies lurch forward.

Sleds, loaded with driver and racegear fly behind,

and back in line waiting teams dance,

howl in anticipation and pull on their lines

as handlers hold them in place.

On the picket, fourteen eager,

ready dogs, are impatient

knowing their time is near.

They dance, leaping and howling for they are:

Sled dogs, bred to work, and born to run.


Eleven dogs move forward walked into place,

fastened two by two, neck lines and tug lines.

The leader stands out, holding his gang-line tight

as pair after pair are fastened into

spot after spot behind him.

Point dogs, wheel dogs, swing dogs

and the rest for strength and speed.

Three don’t make the cut, a cracked pad,

too young, not quite ready to run this race.

Placed back into boxes, distracted with treats,

dismayed by the driver’s decision

to not take them, they whine as she tells them,

“Sorry, not today, next time, it will be your turn to go.”

They cry in despair for they too are:

Sled dogs, bred to work, born to run.


Those chosen, move forward, helpers holding each pair.

Leader strains forward, into the line

and listens to his driver as she tells him

Hold! Wait! And then, R-e-a-d-y . . . .

A shot rings out, snow hook up, break off,

handlers let go and he hears her cry out,

”Run baby run!”

Leaping forward he takes ten flying bodies,

a heavy sled and his driver flying with him.

Following the scent of those gone before,

mouths foaming, eyes ablaze,

booted feet blurred color over snow and ice.

They were ‘chosen.' They shall excel at what they do best,



They are sled dogs, bred to work and born to run!

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.02.2012

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Widmung:
To Amanda whose team is on the cover and to all those dogs who live to run. "Run baby run!" Photo by fellow musher: Nace Hagemann