Part 10
Whippet racing is an old sport and the pastime of working men in England. He has been called the poor man’s race-horse, as indeed he is, the dog providing sport and a means of speculation for men of slender means. Whippet racing is carried on right through the year in the Northwest and North of England. Of late years it has become a great sport in London and its suburbs, the principal handicaps being run off every other Sunday forenoons at Walthamstow. Whippet racing was patronized by the late King Edward VII of England, at the Ranelagh Club grounds, London, and the leading “country club” of its kind in the United Kingdom. Whippet racing has long been a sport in Belgium, France and Germany. Dog racing was also introduced into South Africa during the end of the last century, and valuable handicaps are run off on the diamond and gold fields. Whippet racing was first favored in the United States by the English operatives in the cotton mills in New England, especially in Massachusetts. The sport has been well and continuously conducted at country clubs around Boston and Philadelphia, which has put the pastime on a society basis. There is no cruelty in whippet racing. The dog is held on his mark by the neck and root of tail, and, starting off at pistol fire, the object of his run of 200 yards or less being a towel held by the runner-up—usually someone he knows—who stands, holloas and waves the “rag,” as it is called, 10 yards beyond the winning line or mark. The dogs are handicapped according to their weight or height. The latter is not a popular mode and it is the weight of a dog that is considered practically everywhere. Roughly, it can be reckoned that a dog of say 16 pounds is 2½ to 3 yards faster than a 15–pound dog. A bitch is keener than a dog. The handicap scale given in this description of the whippet was arranged by Freeman Lloyd and is largely in use throughout the world.
A whippet track may be easily laid out on grass, race track, show or fair ground. It must be 220 yards straight. If it is over, so much the better. The further the onlookers are kept off the track the more they can see, and they will not interfere with the dogs running. The whippets are entered, their names, weights, colors and owners being given. Each owner pays an entry fee for each dog and these fees are generally made a sweepstake and the purse divided between the first, second and third dogs in the final heat. The dogs must be weighed before they run and an allowance is made of 4 ounces or 8 ounces either way in their stated weight. The handicap is run off in heats, the number of dogs in each heat varying according to the entry and the duration of the racing. Heats may be run off like clockwork, one lot of dogs starting off as the others are finishing; or it may be delayed when the number of dogs is limited. If 40 dogs are entered and an afternoon’s sport desired they can be run off in heats of four dogs each. There would be then 10 winners of heats to run off in the semi-finals, which could be either two heats of five each or, better still, three heats with two fours and one of three dogs. The two winners, or the three winners of the semi-finals, must be run off in the final. Taking the three semi-finals for choice, there would be run off altogether 14 races, which would occupy about two hours. The owner of the second may challenge the weight of the winner, immediately after the final is run. The dog is then allowed 6 ounces to the usual allowance made before the running of its first heat.
Here is a plan of a track. If possible, the dogs should run so that the sun shall not be in their faces.
+--+--+--+--+--+--+------------------------------------+------------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | 200 Yards | 10 Yards | | | | | | | | | | +--+--+--+--+--+--+------------------------------------+------------+ Handicap Marks Winning Over Mark Mark
The dogs run in colors, strips of narrow ribbon being tied around their necks. These are of red, white, blue, yellow, green and black. On the race card the shade of the dog’s racing color is noted in the preliminary heats. In the semi-final and final heats the back or scratch dog wears the red collar, the next the white, the next the blue, and so on. If the red dog is first over the winning line, where the judge stands, the judge raises a red flag. Whatever color wins so is a flag of the same color held aloft by the official whose ruling is final. Each “runner-up” must be behind the over or trig mark before his dog crosses the winning line. If dogs start when the cap is fired, but there is no powder explosion, it is no start. But if all dogs go fairly away, it is a start. Dead heats must be run off excepting in the final, where owners may agree to divide. If a dog is disqualified, the second dog takes his place in the records. No live bait allowed with the runner-up, and all dogs are subject to inspection by the officials. It is recommended that only whippets of 25 pounds or under be raced. The bigger dogs are often given to savaging or “slapping,” and appear ungainly among a lot of small dogs. The back dog in every heat must run the whole of the 200 yards, or whatever smaller course is used.
STARTS FOR DOGS AND BITCHES OF DIFFERENT WEIGHTS IN 200 YARDS HANDICAP.
When a dog wins at a handicap he must be penalized according to the judgment of the handicapper. The following handicap would put each dog or bitch on equal terms, providing all the dogs were exactly of the same calibre or of equal racing powers—barring their weights:
Wt. of Dog or Bitch—Lbs. Start for Dogs, Yd. Start for Bitches, Yd. 28 1 0 27 2 1 26 3 2 25 4 3 21 5 4 23 6 5 22 7 6 21 8 7 20 9½ 7½ 19 11 8 18 12½ 9½ 17 14 11 16 16 13 15 18½ 14½ 14 21½ 17 13 24½ 20 12 27½ 23½ 11 31 26½ 10 35 30 9 39 34 8 43 38 7 47 43 6 52 48 5 58 54
A dog covering 200 yards in 12 seconds gallops at the rate of 16 yards 24 inches a second; in 13 seconds, 15 yards 14 inches, and in 14 seconds, 14 yards 10⅓ inches.
The Sled Dogs of Alaska
Between the laborer who earns his daily bread by the sweat of his brow, and the spoiled favorite of fortune who neither toils nor spins, there is not more difference than between the workers of the North—the Sled Dogs of Alaska—and the pampered, fur-coated, jewel-hung dogs “in society”; dogs who have their silk-lined baskets, their gold-mounted toilet articles, and the exclusive services of a personal attendant. But “Dogs is Dogs,” and the unhappy accident of birth that gives to such a dog the humiliating experience of having his teeth brushed by a maid, or a massage of cold cream after a bath in a silver-plated tub, should not be held against him—for he may still retain some of his admirable, lovable canine qualities through the human veneer.
A dog’s intelligence and his faithful, affectionate nature are his chief assets in his association with man; and if he preserves these in spite of his artificial surroundings as a mere toy, his development along those lines is almost unlimited when he becomes a co-worker with his master, and a devoted comrade through adversity and peril.
Far beyond the Aleutian Islands, which stretch a grim barrier between the North Pacific and Bering Sea, almost to the bleak coast of Siberia, there lies that part of Alaska not familiar to the average tourist. The Alaska of primeval forests, of great, almost unknown rivers, of vast areas of snow and ice that reach to the desolate shore of the Arctic—the Alaska of the Dogs; and here in the “Land that God forgot,” the dog holds a unique place as an indispensable factor in the settlement of the country.
He discovered the North Pole with Peary; he discovered the South Pole and the Northwest Passage, too, with Amundsen; and he played a pathetic yet heroic part in the brave, if futile, efforts of Captain Scott to reach his goal; just as he has ever played well his role of support to those who have sought to penetrate the trackless wastes at the ends of the earth.
Late in October, usually under leaden skies, nearly the entire population of Nome stands upon a dreary beach watching the last boat of the open season, the “Victoria,” steam slowly out through a sea already heavy with young ice, and disappear in the misty grayness of the horizon. The parting salute of the ship’s siren has been answered by all of the town whistles; and then as if to add the fitting climax to the gloom of the occasion, it seems that every dog within hearing raises his voice to join in a mournful farewell chorus—a blood-curdling wail that is characteristic of these Northern dogs with their strong wolf strain.
But the people look with kindly eyes upon them, and even listen with kindly ears—for they know that every letter, paper, and magazine from now till the middle of June, will be brought in over fifteen hundred miles of ice and snow and frozen sea, by the United States Government Dog Team Mail; and that, except for the wireless system, all of the news from the great world “outside,” from family and friends, depends upon these Postmen of the Silent Trails. They go where soft snow and other conditions make it impossible to use horses. No service is too lowly, no mission too high. They pull the baby in his tiny sled, are the means of delivery for the merchant, and they carry the doctor and priest to the bedside of the sick or dying in some lonely, distant cabin.
Owing to the prohibitive tax rate on railroads which traverse practically uninhabited districts in Seward Peninsula—a tax which has only been abolished within the past few months—dogs have become the motive power instead of engines; and in place of the “toot-toot” of the locomotive as it takes a freight train out to the mines with supplies, there is the “bow-wow” of the dog team “Kougarok Limited” or the “Little Creek Express” as it starts down the track with a loaded flat car.
As to “joy riding,” the “Pupmobile” has every automobile completely outclassed when it comes to the maximum of joy, and the minimum of danger. Given a winter night when the frosty air brings the tingling blood to cheek and finger tip, when the glittering stars seem close above one’s head in the clear sky, and when the trail glistens like a silver ribbon in the ghostly radiance of the Northern Lights, it is a phlegmatic person indeed who does not feel the thrill of excitement and delight that animates the dogs as they strain in their harness to be away for a spin across the snows.
Then there is the famous All Alaska Sweepstakes race each April from Nome on Bering Sea, to Candle on the Arctic Ocean and return, a distance of 408 miles; and the dogs as well as the men who have won their laurels in this contest are the sort of men and dogs who are making the History of Alaska—who are creating an Empire from a Wilderness.
There are two types of dogs used in the race. The Siberians, small, prick-eared, with bushy tails curled up over their backs, and with apparently decided traces of the fox; and the Alaskans who are of mixed breeds—setters, pointers, collies, hounds or what not—with a more or less pronounced wolf strain inherited from the McKenzie River Huskie or coast Malamute.
Both types have their staunch supporters, and for excellent reasons—for both possess wonderful qualities that endear them to dog users and dog lovers. The Siberians have not the speed, and many claim not the responsiveness and intelligence of the Alaskans—but they are gentle, tractable, easy to handle and are able to travel more steadily and with less rest than the others.
The amount of rest in the race is a question of judgment with the driver, who must decide how much he can afford to take himself, and give his dogs without the unnecessary loss of a moment; but as he must return with every dog—dead or alive—with which he started, it is to his greatest advantage to keep them in the very best of condition. At every road-house and relay camp where they stop for food and sleep, it is “Dogs First,” no driver thinking of himself till his team is fed, rubbed, and bedded. When they are tired or foot-sore, they ride in turn upon the sled, recuperating quickly in this way. Little moccasins of canton flannel are carried to be used on hard trails, and veils of black or green mosquito netting are placed over the dogs’ eyes if the glare of the sun is too dazzling.
In the Sweepstakes of 1910, John Johnson, a Russian Finn, driving a team of Siberians entered by Colonel Charles Ramsay of London, came in first. The weather had been ideal, the trail perfect, and they had broken all records—covering the 408 miles in but little more than seventy-four hours. Closely following them was Charles Fox-Maule Ramsay, nephew of Colonel Ramsay, and younger brother of the Earl of Dalhousie, driving his own team of Siberians; and it certainly seemed that the day of the Siberians had come. But in 1911 and 1912, through terrible blizzards and over miserable trails, the Allan and Darling team of Alaskans, driven by “Scotty” Allan, were the winners; and in 1913, Fay Dalzene, with the Bowen-Dalzene dogs, was first, also using the Alaskan type. So that out of the seven great races that have been held under the auspices of the Nome Kennel Club since it was organized in 1908, five victories have fallen to the Alaskans, and the breaking of the record to the Siberians.
In short distances some of the dogs are remarkably fast, travelling at the rate of fifteen or sixteen miles an hour. Irish, one of the Allan and Darling team, a beautiful setter with some huskie blood, can pace a mile in three minutes; and Spot, a cross-bred pointer and huskie, after leading the team thirty miles over a heavy trail, covered four miles in thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds without breaking.
As dog teams are not driven with reins, but by word of mouth, there must be in every team a particularly intelligent dog who is the leader. He must understand not only the simple orders “Mush” (go on), “Gee” (to the right), “Haw” (to the left), and “Stop,” but he must have exceptionally quick instincts, a definite acknowledged mastery over the other dogs, and a sort of canine good judgment which tells him the right thing to do in difficulties and emergencies.
The stories of the marvellous sagacity of certain leaders are easy of belief to “the men that know the North” as Service calls them, but they would appear to be gross exaggerations or absolute untruths to those who have never seen dogs work in harness on the trail.
A leader has certain privileges, such as getting into the sled when the driver is not at the handle bars, and reposing in comfort and dignity on the furs while the rest of the dogs lie in the snow; and other perquisites which may occasion bitter jealousy and make necessary the utmost precaution in guarding him from the attacks of his envious team-mates. Sometimes an old leader, discarded or pensioned, will craftily wait for a chance to kill his successor—this chance generally occurring when the new aspirant for honors is tied and at a disadvantage. Some leaders, however, through wonderful strength and other superior qualities, become more or less exempt from this ill feeling, and their leadership is freely and pleasantly accepted both in and out of “business hours.” Of these, Dubby, a magnificent specimen of the McKenzie River huskie, brought down from Dawson by “Scotty” Allan, was one of the most prominent. Dubby lived to be twelve years old, but was pensioned on his ninth birthday, while still in perfect condition and well able to enjoy the rewards of his faithful service. He had a record of over thirty thousand miles, in harness, to his credit, and the anecdotes of his intelligence are legion. He was often driven “loose,” running ahead of the team instead of being hooked up with them; and he was so efficient as a “general manager” that the loss of his pulling power was of small moment compared to his ability to find and keep an obliterated trail, and his capacity for doing the many clever and helpful things that his active mind found to do. A mere hint that some dog was not working was enough, and Dubby would rush back to critically examine them all till the shirker was located by a slack tow line or traces not held taut. The culprit received a warning nip on the ear or flank, which was a threat of worse punishment if he did not mend his laggard habits; then Dub would dash off to give some other evidence of his real generalship. Perhaps it would be to decide that the ice on the river was not thick enough to bear the weight of the heavily loaded sled—for some strange instinct enabled him to know that fact, when an experienced Musher could be readily deceived; or he would choose the correct trail where many met and crossed, in spite of the efforts of an exasperated driver to convince him of the error of his ways. “You stubborn old Siwash (an insult indeed to apply the name of the most shiftless of Indians to a self-respecting huskie), I’ll wager you’re wrong; but do as you please, keep us all out here in thirty below weather, tired and hungry, and then maybe next time you’ll listen to reason.” But Dubby never did make the predicted mistake, and many a comfortable night’s rest in shelter and warmth was the result of his unerring confidence in his own ability which no argument could disturb. He would politely wag his stump of a tail while he listened tolerantly to your opinion, but he ignored it with the same amiable disregard one would show toward the foolish suggestions of a babbling child.
The tragedies of the Arctic wastes are many, and would be more but for the faithful dogs; the list of canine heroes is long, and would be much longer were all of their brave deeds recorded. They have never, like some of whom we read, attended an “Acadamie pour Chiens,” and acquired, with a diploma, such unnatural refinements and useless accomplishments as are displayed by “dogs in society.” If invited to attend a luncheon of chicken à la Maryland, served on a decorated table, with Fifi and Bijou as fellow guests, they would not only demolish the chicken in short order, but also the decorations, and possibly Fifi and Bijou as well—classing them with cats and other legitimate prey.
There is no downy cushion before the blazing fire, no chosen corner of the limousine, no tooth brush or manicure set for the work dog of the North; yet they are probably happier than their kin of the governess and college education. They have no time for ennui—there are duties to be done, and it is rare indeed to find a sled dog who does not take pride in his task, show delight at the sight of his harness, and eagerly welcome the preparations for a good long mush.
Perhaps one of the most striking features of the races is the pleasure that the dogs manifest not only in the preliminary training, but in the contest itself. One frequently sees a team of dogs, old in the knowledge of racing, perfectly familiar with the hardships before them, waiting for the signal to leave, and so eager to be off, that three or four men are barely able to restrain them till the dip of the flag starts them on their dash to the Arctic. So, too, it is not unusual for a Mail Team, becoming impatient of the delay in unloading the mail, to run away after having carried a thousand pounds of mail for a distance of two or three hundred miles.
In summer when the dogs are not being used they often spend the time about mining camps where they are fed; or if in town they select one or more houses to which they make daily visits at meal hours if they find the inmates hospitably inclined. In many districts the dogs are virtually turned out to forage for themselves, when the wild strain in them asserts itself to an astonishing degree; but this is not true of Nome where dogs are held in high esteem, and where they are given the proper care at all seasons. And each year when the last boat of the summer sails from Nome, there is a long list of dog passengers. To a fancier they would seem undoubtedly a collection not worth their transportation; to my Lady of the Lap Dog they would cause shudders of disgust; there would be no place at the Bench Show for such as these. They are without pedigree, or beauty perhaps—mongrels if you will—but one never knows what a wealth of fidelity may be hidden beneath a rough exterior. Many a story that touches the heart may be extracted from the prospector going outside accompanied by some favorite dog who has shared his solitude and his hardships; who has helped to bear his burdens, and who is now to enjoy with him what they have earned together.
Perhaps that blind old huskie has guided his bewildered driver along the right trail to safety, true to the instincts of the wild, when the whirling snow and icy sleet cut like stinging whip lashes into the face and eyes, making sight impossible.
Perhaps this ragged, ungroomed malamute with his wolf head and his human heart, dragged himself with patient, bleeding feet, half starved and nearly frozen, to some remote camp with the warning that his unconscious master, caught unprepared in a sudden storm, needed help.