“MIKE” —A Saga of the North v

wil
i (\

uy

By Ex-Const. R. J. MEEK

ta he — 4
a a

at

om

aN
ery.

i
2p
=

ee —
—————

ul Ue

City Dogs Had Nothing in Common With Mike ... or His Life . . . for Mike
was One of a Police Dog Team, a Husky Whose Shaggy Coat had Felt the
Blast of Northern Blizzards, who had struggled with His Mates Over Slush Ice
and Padded Many a Weary Mile Under Ice-Cold Northern Stars, While the
Northern Lights Shot Their Shimmering Ghostly Fingers Over the Horizon.

Dog Lovers Everywhere Will Get a New Conception of the Soul of a Dog in

This True to Life Narrative. Written by Ex-Constable R. J. Meek Who Spent

Some Years at McDames Creek in the Cassiar Country ... the Account is
Written With the Warmth of Feeling of a True Dog Lover.

I WAS BORN August 2nd, 1936, my
mother was Queenie, a beautiful Alsatian.
A great strapping huskie, Rum, was my
father though his brother Rye used to
look on us youngsters with a strangely
paternal eye. I don’t know. I guess one
drink’s as good as another, anyway.

That great gaunt region of ragged, stormy

mountain peaks and nameless rivers called
the Cassiar was the land of my birth.

I had two brothers: Tony, black as the
clouds which bring the Chinook winds
and with ferocious gleaming yellow eyes;
while Brownie was a cheerful robust sort,
as tough as they come in that land of hard
stubborn dogs. My sister, Lady, was given
away to Bob Wilms, a_placer-mining
friend of the master, and we saw _ her
quite often.

My mother was the very intelligent
leader of the police dog-team at McDames
Creek Detachment. There weren't many
other teams nearby so we seldom saw
another dog except when Indians came in
from their traplines. We were a pretty
lively lot and led the men at the Post a
merry chase when we were young.

When we were a couple of months old
we started to shift for ourselves. The
snow came early that year and my mother
was needed to lead the team for Game
Warden Faherty, who set off on an un-
seasonably early patrol to the Liard River
area. So the three of us were left to play

SEVENTEENTH EDITION

about in the snow. We liked to sleep in it
as the soft dry flakes slowly covered us
up and we couldn't be seen by anyone.
Tony was a difficult dog to get along
with but we were good friends, while
everybody liked Brownie who was

This is Me, “Mike”

chummy with anyone. We were fed boiled
corn meal or rice, with fishmeal or beef
cracklings thrown in. When we were
lucky we had a snowshoe rabbit to divide
between us, or some fresh moose or cari-

bou meat. There were lots of rabbits in
the willow woods nearby and our dear old
friend Nipper often told us how he had
once caught one all by himself.

In February the weather settled down
to clear skies, zero temperatures and soft
dry snow; we were seven months old
then and growing rapidly. So the boss
caught us and put on collars for the first
time. Awful things. Tony was very wild
and even bit the master. In a day or two
we were tied up to kennels. I didn’t mind
but Tony and Brownie fought the chains
all day long.

Our education started by being led
about at the end of the chain, then we
were hooked up one to the other and
walked around. Of course we'd often
seen the other dogs of the detachment
setting off on a patrol with lots of noise
and excitement. They came back several
days or weeks later looking rather weary
and not nearly so boisterous.

We were fitted with neck harness,
which was to be our very own, and one
by one given turns at pulling with the
big dogs. Brownie and I had no trouble
working with the other fellows—except
we never knew when they were going to
start or stop. But Tony was a devil. He
wouldn't pull when the others did and
made mad dashes for the woods but of
course the harness kept him in place.

One day some men came for a visit in

Page Fifty-seven