How one special dog helped calm the storm of autism in a Western Alaska boy

Donna Erickson doesn't know what goes on in the mind of her 16-year-old son Logan. He won't tell her. He can't tell her.

Autism stole her fifth and youngest boy, along with his words.

Lost inside himself, it took a yellow Labrador retriever named Juke to finally find Logan, who, at the age of 2, stopped doing all of the things toddlers do.

"I spiraled into this hell. For eight years we were living with little sleep and a total nightmare, until Juke changed Logan's life," Erickson said earlier this week from her home in Unalakleet, a hub community in Northwest Alaska and a major checkpoint for Alaska's famed Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race.

The nearly thousand-mile competition from Willow to Nome tests people and dogs against fierce, unpredictable terrain and extreme elements. Mushers time and again say success relies on mutual trust and the special bond, built over years, they have with their team.

Lead dogs — the ones that set the pace — are especially exceptional. Innately, they know what to do: when to run, when to rest, how to find their way.

After six years together, the Ericksons must say goodbye to Juke. Sidelined with hip dysplasia, the specially trained, loyal Lab can no longer do his job.

That doesn't mean he won't try.

"He is still devoted to Logan. He loves Logan so much," Erickson said, pushing back tears.

A dog's magic: 'Mr. Miyagi'

While Logan's mom and dad waited for their son to speak again, they tried to cope with his challenging behaviors.

Their boy never slept. He screamed, moaned, banged his head repetitively, incessantly turned lights on, threw himself against walls, opened doors and windows and often bolted, wandering off in the blink of an eye.

Sometimes, Logan would walk into the river, or into the icy arctic waters of the Bering Sea.

He freaked out a lot. Lights. Sounds. New places. New people. Big weather. High winds. The dark of night. Triggers were everywhere.

To keep Logan safe, Donna and her husband slept in shifts.

In 2009, a severe storm hit while Iditarod musher and family friend DeeDee Jonrowe was visiting.

Logan allowed Jonrowe's small black dog, a Pekingese named Mr. Miyagi, to sit on his lap, and despite evacuations and alarms, Logan remained calm.

Jonrowe, who said she has always been closer to dogs than most people, took note.

Later, at the airport as Jonrowe prepared to return home, Logan verbalized something strange. Over and over the same three syllables spilled out of his mouth. Finally, his mom recognized the sound: "Miyagi."

Logan's first word in seven years was the name of the dog who'd helped him ride out the storm.

"That's when DeeDee figured out he needed a dog. That was the key to unlocking him," Erickson said.

The next spring, Iditarod mushers helped the family raise money for an autism assistance dog for Logan from 4 Paws for Ability, a nonprofit that provides task-trained service dogs to children with a wide range of disabilities. In September 2010, Juke joined the Erickson family.

"The first night it was like a dream. We got home and Juke jumped on Logan's bed and he went to sleep. We could not believe it. Juke calmed the storm of Logan's life," Erickson said.

Every now and then Logan would get upset with Juke. Like when his trusty dog would come home smelling particularly odoriferous.

"That's one of the bad things of living in the village — having a washed-up walrus on the beach by your house. Or a beluga whale," said Erickson, laughing.

Even so, today one of the few words Logan says is, again, the name of a dog: "Juke."

'I will miss him'

At 16, Logan, who loves NBA magazines, Kobe Bryant, four wheelers and watching movies on videocassette, remains severely impacted.

"He can't talk. He wears diapers. Life is very difficult," his mom said.

But with his 24-hour companion at his side Logan has been able to attend school, go to camp, socialize, get checkups and walk around town on his own.

Say the command "anchor" and Juke will spread out, fall to the floor and dig his paws in to prevent Logan from running.

Say "lap" and Juke will lean against his boy to interrupt disruptive, anxious or fearful behavior.

"Track. Where is he at? Where's your boy?" sends Juke on a search and rescue mission. He'll find Logan wherever Logan may be: in a hotel stairwell, a clothes dryer, the grocery store or in the river or sea.

If Logan's in trouble at night, Juke will nudge Erickson until she wakes up, then lead her to him.

But there are some things Juke cannot fix. His bond to his boy is stronger than his body, something his boy doesn't understand.

When Juke became lame and had to have surgery to repair a torn tendon, Logan became angry.

The faithful friend who provided a warm footrest for Logan during meals or when reading, a soft pillow for sleeping, the pal who always knew what was needed and how to deliver it, wasn't there. Not the way he used to be, anyway.

When Juke could no longer climb stairs or jump on Logan's bed, Logan told his mom he didn't need his dog. But she knew better.

Juke still peers at Logan from doorways, walks by his side, comes to check on him when he cries out the guttural commands of their private language.

"It was a heartbreaking experience for the dog and the boy both. Logan was just so used to having this big, warm, furry presence to lean on. Juke wanted to work but he couldn't," Erickson said.

Now, Juke must yield his watch to a new dog, one tailored to Logan's present needs.

As for Juke, he'll spend retirement alongside four other yellow Labs at Jonrowe's home in Willow, which she is rebuilding following the destruction of the Sockeye fire in 2015.

"I have always believed in the man-dog bond," Jonrowe said earlier this week from her living room as Juke's future pack mates tail-wagged with exaggerated side swaggers and offered licks. "It is such an important part of Alaska and such an intricate part of survival. To me it's really cool that the Ericksons were innovative enough to see another way to use that bond."

Jonrowe is inheriting a heroic lead dog, one who shares his bond generously and who safely shepherded a tormented family to a better place.

"He always knows who needs help," Erickson said.

"He took away my anxiety as a mother," she said. "Sometimes I would sit alone and start crying and Juke would come lap and lean on me. He was a very big help to me. I'm going to miss him."