And the winner is.... the husky

13 is a lucky number for dogs if they are pulling a Mackey in their sled. First Rick, then Dick and now Lance have won the legendary Iditarod, the Alaskan marathon for huskies. The family winners all took bib number 13 and won the event on their sixth race. As far as dog races go (and this one is 1,770km) the Iditarod takes the dog biscuit, lasting anything from nine to fifteen days. This year's sled contest took Lance Mackey nine days, five hours and eight minutes. And not content with simply one win this year, he's also the first musher to win both the Iditarod and the Yukon Quest in the same year.
I was once driven over thin ice by an Iditarod challenger, in a 4x4 without snow chains, and as we expertly slip-slid our way town-wards, he let me into a few secrets about a world I knew nothing of. He ran a husky farm inside the Arctic circle near Tromso, in northern Norway. Visitors seeking a glimpse of the elusive Northern Lights travelled out to pet the huskies, hear the puppies barking eerily at the moon, and view the mini wolf-like mothers and fathers tethered outside their doggie cabins in the snow. Huskies may occasionally still look vaguely malevolent - diluted versions of their wolverine cousins, but face to nose, they are invariably friendly and eager to please.
On the husky farm, after failing to sight any green or pink light through an inconvenient haze of low cloud, I instead went the most magical expedition of my life - a dog sled ride. After being satisfied with assurances the dogs lived for it, I looked for myself. I saw their desperation for the off, and heard their excited barks. They had to be held back from pelting forwards before the human cargo was loaded into the low sled, and the reindeer hides heaped on for warmth. I was then dragged gracefully round the cool bright white and otherwise silent landscape, by happy, panting, scampering dogs who, when stopping for a break, were petted and congratulated for enjoying themselves so well. The scenery was like escaping through the wardrobe to Narnia - was that the snow queen? Did I really just see a lone lamp post at the edge of the forest?

More mud!

Out in the countryside this morning for an hour-long mud fest through woods, up hills, and over fields with an impossibly small dog. Cyril needs the exercise. He doesn't get many outings, and as a consequence his belly has grown to meet the ground - his fur dragging on the ground, picking up small twigs and debris as he travels. He badly needs this walk and almost gagged with glee at the prospect of the open path after just a few metres of freedom. Far more exciting than the garden!
It was not raining so I didn't use waterproofs or wellies, but five minutes later both dog and I were ankle deep and stomach deep respectively - in gloopy mud. But I didn't have bits of bramble stuck in my chest fur, so I think I came off better than the dog in the end.
Cyril is mostly a house dog, as stout as he is small and in need of a manicure - so we spent half the time on the pavements. He bounces along, compensating for his stunted stature by well planned hops, leaps and bounds, executed with panache and a wag of the tail. A fat black and tan sausage, he wiggles over larger logs and slides his belly over any other obstacles, he doesn’t like deeper puddles, and like a girl in sinking stilettos, paces round them tentatively. Perhaps he can't swim!
I know when he's all walked out when I see his tongue lolling and he starts to trail a little - and he no longer trips me up weaving round my legs!

Dog Blog – Adventures of a dog walker in Cardiff

Okay, I’ve got it. I think. Little one on the left and the big one on the right, otherwise they both get confused and wind round my legs until I'm a human maypole.

In this wind Maple the stout black Labrador is quite handy, she’s my portable wind guard, at least for my legs, which I shelter behind her as we pad along the side of the road towards the park. The park! Even a whisper of the word sends Maple streaking ahead. She is straining at the lead to get cross the road once a glimpse of green is within doggy distance. But let’s not forget her bosom buddy and fellow pack member Poppy, a small and compact terrier, whose mournful eyes are made to break your heart - the more casual half of this double act. Where Maple leaps, Poppy saunters, and where Maple dashes, Poppy meanders. Not put off by Maple’s pulse-racing pace, Poppy walks along oblivious, a few paw lengths behind.
As we walk across the road, it occurs to me we must look an amusing threesome, as car drivers crane their necks to grin at our mismatched walk, me walking scarecrow-like, one arm stretched forwards the other way behind me.
Once we are in the park it all calms down, and I can almost hear their sighs of relief. We have arrived! Maple immediately makes for the largest puddle she can find, and is delighted to discover one neck-deep, leaping in with an almighty splash. More like a temporary lake than a collection of leftover undrained raindrops, this puddle is so deep Maple contrives to have a little swim, then as if to show off just how skilled she is in finding water - gets out – without shaking, and bounds towards me at full pelt. One hasty sidestep later and muddy Maple has missed her mark, so she doubles back and is last seen heading for the next brown patch on the otherwise green horizon.
I skirt carefully around the pools of brown sludge on desperately sinking grass – obviously I forgot my wellies on the windiest and rainiest day of the year. Poppy politely follows in my footsteps. Clearly she knows I don’t want to get too mud-splattered, and realises she will have her paws washed if she is, which she hates. But this is all going to end in hosing - mini dog showers all round, from the waist down of course - 'tis only decent. Because these once hairy, now mud-wet balls of fur and bark don't really match the pristine cream carpet...