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Bruiser, is that you? Arf. I thought so. I'd recognize that howl anywhere. How ya doin', Buster? I haven't seen you since the Copper Basin 300. Can't complain. My musher feeds me the best liver, chicken, water and beef mixture you've ever tasted. Great stuff. Better than chocolate. Well, fancy seeing you at this checkpoint. Are you just passing through, or are you here for the duration? You know, Bruiser, I'm not sure. My musher didn't say if this was going to be our 24-hour layover, or not, and you know how I lose track of time. So I'm just hanging loose. Occasionally, though, a little better communication would be useful. Doesn't he know he'd be better off if he told me everything? I know what you mean. We pulled into McGrath and I thought we were going to stick around all day, and the next thing you know we're back on the Kuskokwim River in the dark and his headlamp is flickering. Off and on. Off and on. It about drove me crazy. What does he think, I've got radar or something? The life of a lead dog. The rest of the kennel thinks we've got it made, but there's a lot of pressure on us, especially in this one. Humans seem to take this Iditarod thing awfully seriously. I remember the time I trotted right by a trail marker in the Knik 200, just to see if my musher was paying attention, and he just grunted and turned the team around. But when I tried the same trick between Unalakleet and Shaktoolik in the Iditarod, he cursed up a storm. You should have heard the words. And then he moved me back into the middle of the team! No sense of humor. Of course, we were actually in a storm, so the laugh was on him. He wasn't going anywhere without me in lead. Got to keep 'em honest. Heh, heh. Yeah. You know, sometimes I think we need a union. Organize the kennel. What for? We have our own houses, eat whenever we want, have all the straw we need, and get to run on groomed trails for miles and miles. And I don't know about you, but my musher pets me and nuzzles me any time I call him. Besides, the whole kennel listens to whatever I say. A couple of barks and the whole crowd is howling. I can practically start a riot just by clearing my throat. I'd say a dog's life in Alaska is pretty darned good. Sure, sure, I know what you're saying. Being a valuable husky has its perks. But don't you ever wonder if there's more to life than just sniffing out trails? If there isn't more out there in the wide world than treeless tundra and snow-covered hills? Wouldn't you like to smell the flowers at the Alaska Botanical Garden? Nah. I'm allergic. Put me down as your basic snow and ice man. Just let me run free in the wilderness. So what brings this up, anyhow? One day my musher had the radio on and I heard the sports news. Some baseball player in New York, I think his name is Pizza, or something, signed a contract. He was going to get paid $13 million a year, get a hotel suite on road trips, and a luxury box for home games. It makes a dog think, you know. Who couldn't use a few extra bones? A fresh coat of paint on the home? And you know, maybe living-room visitation rights when I retire? I don't know if I always want to be an outdoor dog. Well, Buster, you're an outdoor dog right now. It's 20 below zero with a north wind blowing. My kind of weather. Living room? Listen to you. You're going soft. A dog can dream, can't he? Shh. Here comes my musher. Yours, too. Looks like we're both moving out. Koyuk, here we come. If I don't go on strike right here. Strike? Where's your pride, man? Do you want to get traded to a back-of-the-pack musher? You'd still be the big dog, but you wouldn't have a good team around you. Take it from me, you've got it good. Sigh. I suppose you're right. And Lord, I do love to run. That's the old Buster. On your feet. Gee! Haw! Race you to Nome? You're on. * This column is the opinion of Daily News sports editor Lew Freedman
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