Dogs: A Love Story

A story of Alaska and a girl’s first dog.

Thinking back, I’m not sure when I first fell in love with dogs. I might have loved dogs anyway, or it could have been from growing up in Alaska, where huskies were more common than house cats.

The most celebrated event in Anchorage was the Fur Rendevous. This multi-day event celebrates days gone by — trappers, miners, Inuit, and Yup’ik people— all dependent on the strength and endurance of sled dogs.

photo from Alaska’s Digital Archives

Dogs packed loads in the summer and pulled heavy loads across the snow in the winter. They were used for hunting, tracking, and warned of approaching predators. When prospectors eager for gold arrived in Alaska, they brought St. Bernards and Newfoundlands to breed with the native dogs so they could pull heavier loads.

And when sled dog racing became popular, the husky evolved again. Purebred Siberians were imported and became an essential component of the Alaskan Husky. I even remember mushers intentionally adding Irish setters, pointers, greyhounds, and Saluki to the genetic pool, hoping to add speed.

I saw those huskies and read stories of daring arctic dogs—real and imagined.

The first family dog I remember was Smokey, a mix of husky, German Shepherd, and a touch of Labrador Retriever, possibly. At six, I would sit and pet her soft silk ears. She endured with an air of bored resignation, rolling over for me to tickle her belly dotted with pink spots. Eventually, we found ourselves in a No Pets apartment in one of our many moves, and Smokey went to a new home.

As soon as I learned to read, my favorite books were of daring deeds done by dogs. Buck, the loyal companion in Call of the Wild and Silver Chief, the wild dog tamed by Canadian Mounted Police officer Jim Thorne. Then there were all the books written by Jim Kjelgaard; Big Red, Outlaw Red, Irish Red, Snow Dog, Desert Dog, and many more.

For my seventh birthday, my mother got me a book titled Beautiful Joe by Marshall Saunders. You may have heard of Black Beauty, a book that highlighted the mistreatment of horses. Beautiful Joe is the canine equivalent. A tear-jerker story of an abused dog whose ears were chopped off. I must have read that book twenty times and cried at least as much.

Of course, it was the heyday of dogs on television, too. If you were a kid in the fifties, you’d remember Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, and Roy Roger’s German Shepherd, Bullet. And I wonder about you if you didn’t cry while watching Old Yeller.

Rusty would never have survived without constant rescue by Rin Tin Tin, and Timmy wouldn’t have lasted one season without Lassie.

I lived, dreamed, and yearned for a dog of my own.

I was entirely convinced I needed a dog as quickly as possible. I studied dogs, thought about dogs, and dreamed of the adventures he and I would have. My mother came home with two huskies and a dog sled, which fueled my passion for having a dog of my own.

Author age 8 with one of sled dog name Wolf. photo by M.C. Lloyd

Finally, my mom promised that for my eighth birthday, I could get a dog.

We found a mostly black, mostly husky, fuzzy as a bear cub puppy. So that became his name, Bear.

Bear was one of those lovely dogs who just seemed to raise himself. I don’t remember him eating shoes, chasing cats, or killing the goat, like Wolf, the dog in the photo.

He wasn’t allowed in the house, but I was outside if I escaped school or chores.

I was an imaginative, impressionable child. I don’t think I intended to lie, but I sure made up some stories.

Dear Grandma,

I was walking home from school and two men tried to kidnap me. But Bear barked and growled at them. They got back in the jeep and left. Bear is a hero.

Love, Cindy

Trust me. This never happened.

Nor did he save me from a charging moose and scare away a grizzly bear. I don’t recall if anyone ever challenged my stories or just humored me with a nod and a smile. Perhaps I held most of these escapades in my imagination and never told them at all.

Rather than saving me from evil strangers or looming danger, I mostly felt safe with Bear. I loved to crawl in his dog house with him, curl up and smell the sweet aroma of damp fur. His house was soft with meadow grass I cut, dried, and layered into his house.

He’d lick my lonely tears away.

And as I felt his familiar breath on my face, I felt happy.

My sisters were jealous. Somehow I was assigned dogs, she got cats, and my other sister had a rabbit. I didn’t blame her for being angry; I knew I had the better deal.

Bear was a handsome fellow with a cream-colored cross decorating his chest. He seemed huge and majestic to me, and I loved him with every fiber of my childish being.

It was the summer of 1963.

I’d heard my parents fighting — Mom wanted to leave the homestead. Scared, I worried what would happen to Bear if we moved.

It was a Saturday, and I’d spent the afternoon playing with a girl on a neighboring homestead. We pulled into the driveway, and the first thing I did was check on my dog. Leaping from the car, I called, “Bear, Bear, Bear! Be-ar! Hey buddy, where are you?”

Figuring he’d run off in the fields chasing rabbits and knowing how much he loved to eat, I figured food would bring him home. I poured kibble into two bowls and added some water. Gravy Train. I loved how the red gravy appeared when I poured the water; it almost convinced me it would taste good.

Carefully, I peeled the label off the can of Pal dog food, cranked open the can, and split it between the two bowls. There was a picture of a German Shepherd guiding a blind girl on the label, and the description said: ‘Every label counts. Send us 100 labels; Pal receives we contribute $1.00 to purchase a puppy at Guide Dogs for the Blind’. I saved every label in a bulging envelope.

“Where are you, boy? Bear! Bear!”

I clanked the two bowls together. The sound always brought both dogs, Smokey and Bear, running for breakfast. Smokey woofed at me, impatient with the delay. Where was Bear? What if he’d died bravely fighting a wolf? What would I do without him?

Trying not to cry, I told Dad that Bear was lost. He and John spent hours driving up and down the mountain calling for him.

I lay in bed, miserable. Days passed, and no sign of my dog.

I was literally sick with worry. I had no appetite, and my stomach hurt. Finally, on the fifth day, Mom got so worried she drove me to see Dr. Simpson, the family doctor in Eagle River. This was momentous as doctors were only for emergencies — when I fell through the window slicing my wrist open and when all of us kids were hallucinating with fever.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m worried that it’s appendicitis, and we’re planning to drive down the highway in a couple of weeks. Her Dad had it and almost died.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Lloyd. Let me talk to Cindy, and I’ll find out what’s going on,” he said.

Leaving Mom in the waiting room, he gently shut the door to the examining room where I lay on the table while the nurse puttered.

He gently pressed on my abdomen, “Tell me, Cindy, does this hurt?”

“No, no,” tears ran silently down my cheeks. “It doesn’t really hurt anywhere. I just can’t eat.”

“Sit up, young lady. As anything terrible happened lately?”

“Yes, my dog is lost, and we can’t find him and Dad and John looked all day, and I think a wolf ate him. Or else a bear. And he’s the best dog in the world, and I don’t know what I’ll do without him!”

Never had I cried in public, but there was no holding back now.

Dr. Simpson patiently listened as I sniffled.

Finally, he handed me a tissue and stood up, saying nothing. Unexpectedly, the lead weight in my belly started to lift as I followed him out of the waiting room.

“Mrs. Lloyd, don’t worry, it’s not Cindy’s appendix. I think it was just a stomach bug, but it’s getting better now.” He turned to me with a slight smile.

Throughout my childhood, I thought of this kind doctor as the nicest man I ever knew. He took time to listen to a broken-hearted girl who needed someone to care, and it only cost my mother $5.00.

I think my Dad thought it would hurt more if I said goodbye.

Recently, reading old letters and journals of my mother’s, I discovered my dad had given Bear away while I was at my friend’s house. I suppose he meant to be kind, but I would have preferred to say goodby.

In the many decades since this long-ago story, I’ve had many, many wonderful dogs, but I never forgot my first love, Bear. This week, I’m driving thousands of miles alone for the first time, which to me means without a dog.

I’ve resisted getting another dog because losing them breaks my heart. I remember all the dogs I’ve known—how they’ve loved and comforted me. I’ve decided to get another dog. And I’m going to name him Bear.

Do you still remember your first dog?