Our family has learned so much in the last 13 years. As I look back, I can see how far I have personally come since Laura’s first mushing days. My first experiences were not graceful, effective, or efficient. I thought I might share one such experience with you, and perhaps by doing so you might learn more about Laura’s world and how I first entered it without actually having to go through it yourselves. Should any of you doubt the love and devotion I have for my sister read on and reconsider.
     Laura spent 3 months in Alaska during her 13th year. When she came home, she brought her first 4 sled dogs. This was the start of her original kennel, Rusota Kennels. The day after she arrived, she and mom went to run some errands and I was left at home to “baby-sit.” The dogs were still in crates from traveling and were located in the chicken coop (soon to be transformed into kennel) about 100 yards from the house. As I was relaxing that morning, I heard a screaming from the coop. I threw on my shoes and raced up the hill to find out what was wrong. Only after Laura returned did I discover the dog’s name: Cybil. I also found out that this screaming was Cybil’s normal form of communication. She used it to denote excitement, or just to remind you she was there. But at that moment, I was under the impression that she was either dying, in severe pain, or maybe she just had to pee. I saw some dog leashes hanging on the wall nearby and thought I’d do the right thing by taking the dog out for a brief walk. Getting the dog out of the crate and onto the leash was fairly easy. The dog was social and wagged her tail as I opened the crate door. As we exited the building, I thought to encourage her to do her business so that we could get back inside, so I muttered, “Let’s go, girl.” That was a novice mistake. “Let’s go” was the pull signal for these dogs, and the leash, with me on the back of it, provided sufficient weight to pull. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Cybil’s head dropped, her tail dropped, and her well-muscled legs dug in. Behind the chicken coop was a large hill covered with blackberry bushes. Through the middle of these bushes was a small, overgrown, muddy trail leading to the top of the hill. Cybil took off for this trail, I’m assuming, because trails were familiar to her. We were going uphill so she was working pretty hard. I was working pretty hard just to keep my feet underneath me. Anyone that knows me knows that I DO NOT run. So, to keep up with this dog was a feat in itself. I don’t know if anyone has ever tried to stop a dog that is pulling on a leash, most of the time it works best if your center of gravity is over your feet. If your feet are behind your body, then the laws of physics work against you. I tried everything in the book to stop her: “stop,” “no,” “slow down.” In the end I resorted to begging. Close to the top of the hill I finally hit upon “whoa” . Like magic the steam engine in front of me came to an abrupt halt and turned back to see what I would ask of her next. I was so relieved that for a few moments, as I caught my breath, I forgot that we were now on top of the hill. As I checked to see that all my body parts were in tact the realization that I now had to get this dog back to the chicken coop started to settle into my mind. That’s when panic took over. The power I had felt coming up the hill had given me instant respect for the strength and drive that are bred and then trained into these amazing animals. After I had gained sufficient breath to attempt the return trip I bent down to give the dog a scratch and try to communicate that I would greatly appreciate a leisurely stroll down the hill. I need to note here that I had learned a few lessons about sled dogs from my sister before this incident. The one that had been repeated through story after story, driven deep into my mind by numerous examples was never to let go of a sled dog. If released they would do what they were passionate about, they would run. They would find a “trail” usually in the form of a road and go,go,go. “Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go.” With this mantra going through my head I stood up, looked down the trail, gathered my shattered courage, set my will to staying up right on the way down, slid my hand through the loop on the leash and timidly said,” Okay girl, let’s go.” Oh my word, to this day the memory makes my heart race and hands shake. We were off, down the trail which during early spring resembled a mud slip-and-slide. I didn’t run, I skied. I alternated feet as I tried with everything in me to stay upright. I knew if I fell over I would not let go. I also knew, without a doubt, that this dog could and would pull all of my weight whether I was standing or not. Did I mention earlier that the path was overgrown? Did I mention that the hill was covered in blackberry bushes? I think I did, so it won’t come as a surprise that as I focused on staying on my feet I was being whipped in the face, on the arms, legs and various other body parts by sharp brambles. I also need you to visualize water skiing. As the skier plows through the water rooster tails of water fly out from their feet or skis. This is exactly what the mud was doing at my feet. It didn’t seem to only go out the back though. It was spraying in all directions, all over my body and face. As we approached the chicken coop I started to call “whoa, whoa” and she seemed to know this was “home” and pulled directly to the door and stopped. I threw the door open and we entered. I was wiped out but elated that I had not lost my sister’s dog on its' first day in residence. I wrongly assumed that all my troubles were done that day. I walked Cybil to her crate and opened the door. She just looked at me. I tried gently pulling her collar towards the opening to no avail. What ensued at that point could have made WWF Pay-per-view. Cybil sprouted four more legs and all of them worked a lot more effectively then mine. Let me add that these dogs had just arrived from Alaska and had immediately begun blowing their thick winter coats. I was sweaty, I was muddy and now chucks of fur were flying.  I was completely covered by a thick fur coat. I finally was able to deposit her in the crate and shut the door. I left the chicken coop a wreck but not defeated. Half way down the hill to the house I realized that the dog had never gone pee. As I reached the driveway my Mom’s car pulled in and my dearly beloved sister stepped out. I feebly said,” I thought she needed to pee.” I guess I must have looked even worse than I thought. Laura started laughing. Not a little giggle but full on, gut wrenching howls. Mom didn't outright laugh but the smirk was not very well concealed. I can laugh at it now but at the time I didn't see the humor.  

     I’ve learned so much since that day. I know all of the commands, how to lift the dogs front legs off of the ground to reduce their pull power, and even what the meaning of the different dog noises/howls/barks/songs are. I also know these are never things I would have ever chosen to learn myself. I am cat person, much to my sister’s dismay, but I love my sister dearly and would do anything for her, including that horrible “walk.” As I look back over all of the experiences I’ve had I realize that they were not only a part of learning about the dogs but about how to support and love those in our lives. As the years have passed I’ve learned the best way to show others love is to come along side them helping them strive toward their goal as if it is your goal also. Sometimes I wish I could learn these things without quite as much drama. Oh well, this is life.