… with a bag of treats!
DOGS
TRUSTING YOUR NEIGHBOR… one of the many reasons I love small-town Montana.
Jigs wasn’t happy when I made him put out his cigar… AND wait in the car.
An early evening in Livingston, Montana — taking home organic baby kale, broccoli, sugar snap peas, Flathead cherries, and a bag of kettle corn for the drive back to Martinsdale.
After Ravioli died last Sunday on a lonely stretch of Montana highway, my mechanic turned the ignition and immediately declared the three dreaded words, “broken timing belt.” I am a Toyota-owner devoted to taking my 1999 Rav 4 for the long haul. “Wouldn’t it be cool to hit 500,000 miles?” I often tell my friends and family, excited by the possibility that my vehicle is just now hitting middle-age. Only a very few select people (mostly mechanics) get as excited as I do when I talk of testing the endurance of my little SUV-that-could.
During the 12 hours between having Ravioli towed to White Sulphur Springs and getting the call from my mechanic detailing the extent of the damage, I was overwhelmed with a strange sadness. A giant hunk of metal, plastic, rubber, grease, and glass shouldn’t make me so emotional, yet it does. Some of the best times in my life were spent road-tripping with my mom in this vehicle. Driving down the highway, I can still picture her sitting there next to me, her purse tucked between her feet on the floor, a dog draped over her lap. I spot an old farm house, or some flowers, or a dog, or a train and I long for my parents — they both loved to take drives just to “look at things.” What I wouldn’t give to have them back in these seats for just one more trip down to Greensburg, me half-watching the road and half-looking where they point, hearing their voices saying, “Look over there…”
I know that cars don’t DIE — they just break, they stop working. We have the option to move onto something newer, better… or we can repair what we love. If only the rest of life worked that way. “You’re in luck,” my mechanic told me when he called the next morning. “Ravioli has a non-interference engine. Most new cars have interference engines which means that when a timing belt breaks it usually does serious damage. My dear, Ravioli just needs a new belt… and she’s ready to roll again.”
It’s silly, I know, but I teared up when he told me the news. Non-interference — I like the sound of that.
On the way home from the mechanic’s garage, Ravioli turned to 272,000. And, no, your computer screen isn’t plastered with dust, my dashboard is!
… tying your broken-down Toyota Rav to the back of a kind stranger’s truck, and allowing him to drag you 13 miles back home. I was SO THANKFUL my Ravioli’s battery failed on a main road instead of the dozens of remote forest service roads I enjoy “getting lost on” every week. Billy saved me this morning by offering me a tow. But once we got rolling it was pretty scary driving with limited steering and brakes, especially since I was following way close to his rig. Billy knew what he was doing though, and I thank him for taking an hour out of his day to haul me and the four dogs safely back to Martinsdale. Tomorrow, I’ll drive my old Ford dog truck (a.k.a. the MOOSE) to White Sulphur Springs to pick up a new battery. I hope that vehicle makes it!

Our model German Jagd Terrier, Jigs, feels quite sporty wearing a blaze orange collar accessorized with a receiver by Tritronics and a silver cow bell.
I hadn’t gone through the black duffel in years, but that long lapse of time meant nothing to Jigs and Chloe. The moment I pulled the bag from the shelf, they rejoiced, running laps around me as I inventoried it’s contents on the living room floor. Every few seconds they’d stop to poke their heads in the bag, and then jump up on me, scratching my back with their too-sharp nails, trying to lick my face. If they could speak, I know they’d be saying, “Get them out!”
My string gets excited whenever I put on my shoes, touch my car keys, or get in the near vicinity of their leashes — those are pretty common reactions for most dogs. My Alaskan Huskies went insane when I grabbed their harnesses, knowing they’d soon be running down a trail. But many people might be amazed to see that Jigs and Chloe get even more amped up over their shock collars. To them, these collars mean something even bigger than walk or roadtrip or mushing — they mean FREEDOM!
The black duffel contains all of my dog-hiking paraphernalia: blaze orange collars for hunting season, small cow bells to help me locate my short dogs in tall brush, a treat bag, water bottles, and a bowl. One morning last week, I finally worked up the nerve to take out the collars and charge them up. I’ve been wanting to let them off-leash for so long, but my heart still suffers from the “what if’s?”. Giving my dogs their freedom back was something I needed to do — for them and for me.

When not leading an Iditarod Sled Dog team, Lolo is a follower. Here she tags along behind Chloe, the black blob.
My friend and veterinarian in Indy, Dr. Shannon Kiley, helped me train Jigs to a shock collar when he was two years old. German Jagd Terriers are bred to hunt bear and wild boar along with the usual rodents. The small but tough terriers have a hard-wired hunting instinct that can be difficult to control. Training Jigs to a shock collar made his off-lead life safer, and gave me some much-needed peace of mind. Now, I train all of my hiking dogs to the collars (I use the Tritronics Pro 100 G3 EXP model with Tracer Lights) which I prefer to call their “pagers.” I very rarely use the shock button anymore, only needing to press the “BEEP!” sound button to get their attention in the field. Jigs and Chloe love to be “paged,” knowing that a treat awaits them when they “come.”
I know my dogs are animals, and there will be times (usually involving skunks or deer or porcupine) when their instincts will take over. I weigh the risks and
rewards wherever I go, and try to make the best decisions for their safety. Every day, I become a little bit braver. At first, I allowed them to run free on familiar hikes around Martinsdale Reservoir or up Pasture Gulch. Now, we are branching out to new trails in the Castles, Crazy, and Little Belt Mountains. Every time I release them to run, yelling their favorite command, “FREE DOG!”, I feel tiny pieces of my old self returning. And I am reminded that one of the most precious gifts in life is freedom… of all kinds.
















