A Bicycle Built For Two

For my French class at my last semester at BYU, I was assigned to attend a lecture about the French way of life. The one I chose to attend featured a seasoned French cyclist who had written a book about how riding a bike was good for the soul. I wish I could remember more of the details, and normally I would, except it just so happened that at the time, I was recovering from a concussion I had procured while dancing with a freshly returned missionary. A lot of things around that time are a blur! Anyway, it turns out that he was a veteran of the Tour De France. He claimed that it is the hardest race in the world. In my mind, I thought. Phhht! No it's not, the Iditarod is! I had an experience this weekend that taught me that we were both right.

Maren always told me that if I wanted to go bikejoring, all I needed to do was ask. In the past, I've tried to make several different appointments to go out with her, but fate proved to be a stumbling block-between schedule conflicts and Kahlua getting killed, it seemed like my training was never meant to be. Finally I gave it one last shot and scheduled with her for this past Friday, and it worked out.

I had to wake up 5:30 am so that we could beat the still overly hot temperatures of the day, but I had barely fallen asleep at 2:30. I didn't feel tired at first, I was up and raring to go! My mom dropped me off at the shop where I waited for Maren to meet me. We drove up to the Squaw Peak trail, where Racer already had the rest of the team. We had brought with us one of new rescues, Timber, so that she could be trained to pull. I thought Maren was going to hook me up to her, because she had more reason to actually obey me, but Maren told me she wanted me to choose one of her dogs. Each and every one of them is a racing machine. It sounded very ominous.

I decided I wanted Zilla, Maren's Australian Shepherd/ Husky mix. I've met her before, and she was sweet. I figured that because she had a shepherd's heart, she would have a merciful soul.

I thought I had dressed warmly enough for the occasion, but once we got out there, the very air in my lungs froze. The trees were beginning to change colors and there was a definite autumnal chill in the air. Maren made me wear a helmet and a pair of over-sized biking gloves. I had no idea why I would need them, but I really came to appreciate them later.

Maren hooked Timber up with Sage, appropriately named for her ability to teach the novice dogs of Maren and Racer's team how to pull. I wondered if maybe I should just sit back and observe them for oh, I don't know, a couple of years? Nevertheless, I put on a brave face as they hooked Zilla up to Maren's specially-made mountain bike and kept those thoughts of 'how do I get myself into these situations?' to myself.

It's a very intimidating thing to put your life in the hands(paws?) of animal, especially if you're not it's owner. All Zilla would have to do is stop suddenly for me to be thrown to my death, and she would never have to worry about lugging my carcass around ever again. In theory, I'm supposed to be the one in charge, the one setting the pace and giving the directions, but anyone who has ever worked with Huskies knows that's not always going to happen.

I gave out the shout " Hike, Hike!" and off we flew. (Musher's don't really yell 'mush'. That's Hollywood stuff). I found a new appreciation for all kinds of things on that trail day: brakes, paved roads, cushy bicycle seats, etc. Zilla and I pounded up that dirt trail up in to the mountain like her heart was going to break. I took back the scoffing I had mentally sent that French bicyclist that day; I felt that because the Tour De France was held in temperate July and wound all over scenic France, and wasn't quite the same distance as the Race to Nome, it couldn't really compare to the Iditarod. But that day, on that trail, I learned that bicyclists must have callused fannies, because mine was very unaccustomed to the jolting and bumping of a rocky dirt road. (and I really don't have much padding back there, you know), I also know that bicyclists must have iron lungs and thighs that constantly burn, because both of mine wore out on the way up. Maren was behind me, and she decided to give me a second dog, Sage, to help me finish. I felt like a complete and total wuss.

The real thrill came on the way back down. Maren took Sage back in order to keep me from zooming off into oblivion, and she told me that this was the easy part. I figured I'd be okay. Zilla was totally compliant with me and was responsive to anything I said. She is the most mellow of the dogs on the team, and I was right, she has an understanding heart. I felt like I had had a grasp on the idea, and was finally in control. But I'll tell you what, as we turned around and went back down the mountain, I think I had the fear of God inside of me. I don't think events that are animal based are placed in the category of extreme sports, but they should be. Anything that involves cooperation between human and animal in order to succeed is a real feat, and I honored mushers all the more that morning. I knew my time had come and that I was about to cross that ol' river Jordan into that giant dog park in the sky, when Maren taught me the command for slow down and how to pump my brakes.

In the end, I arrived back at the trailer shaky, colder then I could remember, my hands numb and my bummy sore. But I felt more alive and more happy then I have in a long time. It was the same feeling I got when I visited that kennel in Alaska. I loved it, and I'm going to see if I can schedule again next week. Only this time I'll bring another pair of gloves. And maybe my bootie pop.

How to Save A Life

A lot of great things have happened for me recently, and I'll write about them next, but tonight my heart is filled with philosophical bittersweet-ness. I'll explain:

Mormons, like all Christians, love parables and have come up with several of our own modern allegories in order to illustrate the ways and workings of God. (speaking of, perhaps I should get in touch with Sheri Dew and ask if she is interested in putting together a book. hmmm... there might be money to be made here...) One parable in particular tells of a man who is walking along a beach and encounters another man combing the beach for stranded starfish and throwing them back into the ocean. The man asks the other " Why are you wasting your time? You can't possibly save them all. It won't make much of a difference." to which the other man replies to the sceptic "It did for that one."

This story became my life philosophy. I decided that to save a life, if only just once would be satisfying for me. That is, it was before I met Evo.

In order to understand why this puppy means so much to me, we need to move back a couple of months. Last April, my family lost our gorgeous German Shepherd mix, Luke. He had been in our family for almost 10 years, and his death was surprising and mercifully sudden. In fact, he died in my arms( so to speak; he was 120lbs. I basically just held his giant head and sobbed as I told him he could go. ) By miraculous circumstances, we were all there by his side when he went, and we all knew that the Lord had given us a great gift. My siblings and I all loved him, but out of all of us, I think I took his passing the hardest. (all though, my youngest sister Allysann has been reported to say that she will "never love[another dog] again." Very Dawson's Creek). As to be expected, there was a huge hole left in our home without him there, and I found myself mourning in a very embarrassing manner...

My mother, unable to cope with the void Luke left behind, convinced my Dad to allow for another dog in our home. Only this one was to be the size of the fur balls Ally used to collect off Luke's shedding hide. To the elitist hybrid breeders, he is a 'malkie'- a Maltese/ Yorkie mix. He's tiny, no more then 4lbs, which makes him 1/25 of the dog we used to have. My mother named him Ernest, after the play 'The Importance of Being Earnest' . This little guy has an endearing way about him, but he has had great difficulty with house training. One day, my mom and I took him to Petsmart for some supplies. She found a dog trainer there and sat down to consult with her about Ernie's little problem. While I waited, I found that the trainer had her demo dog there, waiting patiently and serenely for her attention because that's what Golden Retrievers do. They're basically perfect. I started to scratch him behind his ears and he just fell limp at my feet. I sat down beside him and started to rub his tummy (something I'm very good at, I might add), and I began to realize how much I missed snuggling up to a furry dog with bulk. Before I knew it, tears began to roll down my cheeks. The startled trainer asked me if I wanted her to take him away, and I told her no. I just sat there, like a boobing idiot, petting that animal and wondering where my own Lukie had gone.


Now for the good part. I had made Evo's acquaintance only shortly before Luke had died. He, like all the dogs I work with, had a sad story. His previous owner dumped him at the Humane Society with some lame excuse and left him there to die. Evo wasn't even put up for adoption. He was set for euthanization the moment he arrived because his owner claimed he was 'an escape artist'. This is a ignorant assessment because:



a) ALL HUSKIES ARE ESCAPE ARTISTS! It is part of their breed! They, more then any other type of dogs take after their vulpine forefathers. They're roamers and they're hunters. They're very prey driven and they are not safe with children, cats, or even sometimes small dogs. A lot of people get Huskies because they think they are beautiful or cool, but they know very little about the breed and as a result, the dogs get dumped, and the lucky ones end up with people like Maren. I shudder to think about all those that aren't lucky. Evo wasn't meant to be. He was scheduled to die when he was only 8 months old. I have some choice words for this loser of a owner, but being a Christian woman, I just can't say it! Seriously though, irresponsible people like this are pimples on the butt of humanity.



b) Evo has been assessed by an expert, and we think he might be part German Shepherd. Because of this, he has some very shepherd- like qualities. We learned that when Kahlua got out and was killed, Evo not only stayed put, but kept the other dog in the yard too. He's highly intelligent, and very protective. This is not the making of un-controlable, wild, dog.



But I digress. Continuing on with the story: The head of the Adoption Services at the Humane Society couldn't bring herself to destroy such a beautiful dog, so she contacted Maren and asked her to take him. We didn't have room for Evo at first, so she kept him for about a month before Maren could pick him up.

In the beginning, he broke my heart. He was very nervous around people, particularly children, and didn't want to be petted. He would bark loudly at any strangers that came into the shop and would run away if anyone approached him. Except me. I'd like to say that I have a special gift with animals, and that they instantly sense my aura of compassion and fun when we meet, but I'll be honest, I think the reason the dogs are never intimidated by me is because I'm 4' 10'' in all my glory and they can take me down anytime they want. And I'm always equipped with a leash and a treat. No matter what home they come from, they recognize these things as sign of good will. This probably dates back to the Pre-existence.



I learned very quickly that I had to watch which routes I took him on, because when I went into a overly crowded area, people inevitably wanted to stop me and pet him, which he was not comfortable with. I began a routine with him, and took him the on the same path everyday, so that he would become more secure with me and his surroundings. He did beautifully. Soon he had our walk memorized and he was as well behaved on a leash as I could ask for. (although, he has recently displayed a tendency for J-walking...) I began to trust him so much that I our walks went from being a half an hour to an hour and a half. I learned that I could take him anywhere, and I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. I even found a little fenced-park where I could let him off his leash and let him run. Evo would come right back to me the moment I called. He loved it, and he loved me. He was never much of a licker, but he would greet me every day by jumping up on me. He's big enough that his paws would rest on shoulders. I didn't mind it at all. It was like getting a hug, doggie style. He learned that he enjoyed being petted and scratched and came up with a system to let me know when he wanted my attention. I came to love this animal more then any other dog I've worked with at the shelter, past and present. After I would walk him, I would sit with him and cuddle him before I had to leave. He came to expect it, and was all too willing to lay his big furry head in my lap.

Maren was pleased that I was willing to spend so much time with him. She said it was good for him to be socialized and all my work with him was going to help him get adopted. We started taking him to dog shows and demos, and he stopped traffic wherever he went because he was so pretty. She said it was all positive training for him. But what she didn't know is that Evo was doing much more for me then I was for him. My heart still hurts when I go home to a house that doesn't have a loud, hairy beast that's just begging for me to pay attention to him and scratch his bum, but that was momentarily forgotten when I had the chance to focus on another creature who needed me as badly as I needed him. And not just for grieving. These past couple of months have been very difficult for me and I have struggled worse then I have in years. I felt very alone, and socially neglected. It seemed like everybody wanted something from me, but nobody cared that I was hurting. But I'm the kind of person who needs desperately to be needed, and Evo gave me a sense of purpose. People who don't like or understand dogs can't visualize them being self aware, but not only are they capable of feelings, but they are capable of sensing emotions in others. That is why they are so often used in therapy. My mom once said that Luke was her therapy dog. Evo was mine.



I keep using past tense, and the reason for that is because today Evo was adopted. I should be happy about it; it's the whole objective of what I do. Maren was even kind enough to let me meet the people who were taking him and even asked for my input- which she is under no obligation to do. I felt like these people were nice, but twits- the girlfriend in the couple asked me if we 'could train Evo to not kill their cat'. Now, like I said, Evo is a very good dog, and very well mannered, for a Husky. I've seen him by-pass birds, dogs, rodents, bugs, garbage , all kinds of distractions in the dog world. But he's still a dog and cats are his weakness. Anytime he sees one he tries to convince me that it should be on the menu. You can only ask so much from a dog! I felt like asking her if she felt like a lioness could be trained not to kill a weak and sickly antelope.

However, Maren has warned them of the risks and since Evo does have so many shepherding qualities, she thinks it's possible that he can learn to go against his nature. She's the boss. I prayed that she would find the best home for him and this is what she felt inspired to do. At least these people are athletic, active people and judging by their insistence that they adopt him, even at great peril to dear old fluffy, I feel confident that they can love him enough. I just know that when I walk in to the shop on Monday morning to walk the other dogs, I'm going to remember that he's no longer there, and there will be another hole in my heart. For a little while, anyway.



I took him out today one last time and made him sit with me while I took a picture of us on my phone. It's not that great, but in my defense, he was distracted by two stately German Shepherds across the street-which to his enormous credit, he did stay sitting- and I had a hard time fitting both his fat head and mine in the frame. Anyway, the point is, I may not have been the one to take him out of death row, but I dedicated a great deal of time and effort and even some expense to enrich his life so that he would learn what it felt like to be truly loved. But in the end, although I wasn't about to slit my wrists or anything, he gave me a reason for living. Moral of the story: you give a little love and it all comes back to you...