FUR WILL FLY

Dad stepped out of the house bundled in a heavy coat, boots, stocking cap, and gloves. “Mind if I ride with you today, son?”

“Sure! That’d be terrific!” I was thrilled, this was my chance to show off my mushing skills to the man who held my future in his hands.

Dad climbed into the toboggan, and I took my place at the rear, gripping the rail. I wondered if King could handle the extra weight, but I remembered Marley saying these dogs could haul thousands of pounds.

King didn’t miss a beat. With power and grace, he surged forward, and the three of us sailed down the snowy road toward the store.

After stopping out front, we tied King to a post and left him harnessed while we went inside to shop. We were halfway through the store when we heard a vicious, high-pitched growl erupt outside.

We dropped everything and rushed out the door.

King and Curley, the Stanford’s wiry Airedale Terrier, were locked in a brutal fight. I’d never seen a dog fight before. It was terrifying. Though King was larger, he was hampered by the harness and the toboggan. Curley had the advantage.

Jake Stanford, the store owner, bolted outside right behind us. King’s jaws were clamped on Curley’s neck, fur flying, teeth bared.

Dad lunged to grab King, while Mr. Stanford yanked at Curley. I shouted for King to stop, but Dad barked, “Stay back!”

Then, I had an idea.

“MUSH!” I yelled, using the one word King couldn’t resist.

It worked. King released Curley immediately and looked toward me, his ears alert.

Mr. Stanford managed to pull Curley away. To my surprise, he wasn’t angry. “King was defending himself. Curley has a lot to learn,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow.

I was proud of King for holding his own, but also rattled. That kind of violence burned into your memory, raw and wild. I made a mental note to steer clear of Curley from now on. He wasn’t fully grown yet, but the next fight could be worse.

King shook off the encounter and made a big circle with the toboggan like nothing had happened. He pulled up in front of us like a chauffeur.

We loaded up the sled and started for home, crossing the Ottertail River bridge and passing Cathie’s one-room schoolhouse. At the three-way crossroads, Dad pointed right.

“Let’s take Pine Lake Road,” he said. “I want to make a quick stop at The Red Oak Bar.”

The rustic log tavern stood on a small hill overlooking Cotton Lake. In summer, fishermen used the ramp beside it to launch boats; in winter, they drove their cars out onto the thick ice to reach their fishing shacks.

“Pull up near the front door. I’ll run in to pee and grab a six-pack,” Dad said. “You need to go?”

I shook my head and stayed with King.

A few minutes later, Dad returned, not alone. A group of curious men followed him out, gathering around the sled and the dog.

“What is he?” one asked.

“Alaskan Shepherd,” I replied. “And don’t try to pet him, he nearly tore apart a dog that got too close.”

King growled softly on cue, adding to his legend. The men stepped back.

Dad chuckled and waved goodbye. I noticed the six-pack of Hamm’s in his hand.

“For later,” he said, catching my glance. I knew it meant sardines and crackers, and stories by the stove.

Instead of taking the road, we crossed the lake on the ice. Midway home, we stopped by our little black fishing shack to make sure it was still locked up tight. Dad promised we’d go ice fishing the next day.

As we turned for home, I looked up at the snowy bluff and saw our magnificent house standing tall behind the cottonwoods, glowing in the late afternoon sun. King didn’t slow as he muscled us up the hill, as if we weighed nothing at all.

Word about King, the mighty sled dog, traveled quickly after that.

I was proud.

Dad was smiling in that way that meant more.