For most of the first year I had my dog, she was terrified of me.

In my #introduceyourself post, my little goober of a pup Murphy made an appearance, and promptly upstaged me utterly. (This is the story of my life, folks.) As if my competition for attention wasn't hard enough, I do actually have another sweet soul who's sharing this wild journey through life with me. So today, inspired by the daily color challenge, I thought I'd introduce you to Berta, and tell you little about how she has changed the course of my entire life.

All three of my dogs (one of whom who has now passed) were at one point in their lives working sled dogs.

This is a key component to my life story as much as theirs, as I live in British Columbia — the idyllic winter wonderland backdrop to the now infamous Whistler massacre. My first dog, Goofy, was a survivor of this company, and some other really heinous realities in the tourism industry. Dog sledding here is — quite understandably — a touchy subject. For today, I'm not getting into it. This is about Bert.

When the time came to expand the pack, I knew that I was absolutely adopting another sleddie. (That's a term that we crazy dog people call our retired or fired sled dogs. It's easier, cuter, and removes these incredible creatures a few steps from all the strange stigmas that surround them.) I made the scenic drive up to a kennel in the mountains; one which has worked hard to be transparent about end of life plans for their working dogs in the face of the extreme backlash here from the public. In places elsewhere around the world, they don't get to go to homes, have families, or be loved until they are ready to leave this earth... there is a shotgun, and a hole out back.

There were only a few dogs there ready for retirement: age, health, and attitude all come into play when choosing who runs for tourist season and who does not. As I walked through the enclosure, a tiny, tentative chocolate chip nose emerged from the safety of a dog house. Unlike the others, pushing for attention, or cautiously approaching, Berta was shut down. She was terrified of women; the sledding kennel she was rescued from in the states was one that used physical discipline, dumping her after years of litters and as her body started to give up from the strain of constant pulling.

My heart filled and shattered both, and in the same instant I lost it to her completely. The transfer through medical and a rescue society began that day.

 
It has not been easy. Learning to love and support a dog with extreme fear and anxiety issues has been a steep curve. Taking her into my home not knowing her true age (apart from that she is a senior) or anything about her medical history has meant the realisation that my time with her will not be as long as I would hope. But, because of her, I now work with two humane societies and the BCSPCA. I'm deeply involved in transporting and fostering other sled dogs ready for retirement, in the hopes that people will look past all of the things they think they know and see a dog; just a dog, who wants to love and be loved.

I've watched her learn to smile. I've watched her going through the trials of puppy-hood, but without the happy curiosity: figuring out staircases, being fascinated by mirrors, puzzling out how to knock things off the table to sniff. I've watched her try to figure out why she can see the rain out the window but isn't getting wet. I've watched her start to understand that the things in our house belong to her, too. I've watched her silly saluki ears flapping in the breeze, and stroked her insanely fluffy husky fur. I've watched her struggle with her worn down teeth, from chewing the chain she was secured with for most of her life. I've watched her cry in frustration when her back legs give out, because of the hip dysplasia that's come from pulling too much, too hard, from too young an age. I've watched her progress forward and backslide; crawled carefully along the floor so as not to scare her while she worked on trusting my presence.

I've watched her discover what it's like to feel joy.

 

So that's my little Berta bug. Berta banana. Nana bug, nananoodle, etc. You know how we do that thing where when we're talking to an animal we just stop using words and start making random squealy gobbledygook noises at them? Insert that here. Love is everything. I don't take as many portraits of Bert, because she's not a huge fan of the camera, but when I do I'll share them with you. My shy girl is now glued to me when we leave the house; she trusts me implicitly to take her on adventures and shelter her from harm.

Someday soon, when I'm ready, I'll introduce you to Goofy. I'll talk more about Murphy, and, if there's interest, I'll talk more about dog sledding and why I feel it's time we ask the industry to work towards meaningful, ethical change driven by love and kindness.

But for now, there's a whole beautiful world out there that needs exploring, and when I'm with her, it's like I'm seeing it for the first time.

 

All of these photos are my own, taken on my travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them.