Reflection on Goals

I have calendars everywhere. And each calendar has a purpose. My food calendar, which has been posted periodically, is used for planning out meals and for building grocery lists. I have a birthday calendar that I use for tracking family birthdays so Catawba-Lynn, my 4-year-old daughter, can send pictures she has colored by mail as their card and present. I also use that calendar to write how much I walk on my almost daily walks (not steps per day, but my actual walks). And then I write my walk tally in my food journal, which is almost a calendar and my daily planner – one of my most beloved possessions, which keeps track of our household daily happenings. (Silly relatives who get our End of the Year Note in our Yule Cards who think I have an amazing memory, remembering the past year – I don’t remember what happened in the past year, I write it all down! Then I have a glass of wine, or five, and I review the ups and downs of the year and I share it with family. 2019’s was six pages!) When we still lived close to family in Wisconsin, I had a “Where in the World is Catawba-Lynn” group on Facebook. I wrote out day by day, week by week, what Catawba-Lynn would be doing (like going to story time at the library, open gym and swimming lessons at the rec center or our weekly trips to the Milwaukee County Zoo) which was an open invite to family to watch or participate. This, I consider, was a calendar as well. But COVID and then our move across country for my husband’s dream job killed that calendar.

I also have one more calendar that I use. It is kind of a catch all for planning weekends, events, parties, or travel. In the past I’ve used this calendar to keep track of day trips to local gardens or museums, free events hosted by the city, trips to see family, sporting events, county fairs, important days such as Grandparent’s Day or official Dog Day and holidays. Some of these events (sports and fairs) have been cancelled or changed around for the 2021 calendar year. NASCAR has their race schedule up for the cup series but not the truck series. Hockey – NHL and AHL – have stated their seasons would start January and February respectively, but the schedules are not posted yet. DOTA 2, The International, (TI 10) was postponed from 2020 to hopefully 2021 – maybe in August – we will see? Dog shows like the Westminster and AKC dog shows had to either move venues and/or change how they allow spectators to participate. I have found that scheduling and planning (coupled with self-accountability) has helped me stayed on task, be it losing weight, classwork, preparing for our cross country move, taking care of a young child or surviving COVID – I love planning and am always looking several years in advance.

I was enjoying scribbling all these dates and activities on my calendar. I was filled with positive vibes for 2021. 2021 may be different and crazy, like 2020, but I am still going to take the year head on and do my best to get the most out of it, which is how I want to treat my life as well. I want to get the most out of life. As I daydreamed and scribbled, I clicked over to Iditarod.com, saving my favorite sporting event, the best sporting event, for last, the Iditarod.

The Iditarod, “The Last Great Race on Earth.” I fell in love with the Iditarod when I was six years old in second grade. The daring freedom of being alone with your dogs – your team vs the world – anything nature could throw at you; you and your team would conquer. I was so passionate about the Iditarod and mushing while growing up. Any person that would listen to me, I would spout facts about the Iditarod to, any paper or project in school that I could do on mushing, I was on it. I read every book our library had on mushing and the Iditarod, sometimes checking them out for weeks at a time so I could read them a second or third time. If one of the books I was looking for was checked out, I would feel as though I was being encroached upon. How dare someone else in Milwaukee County have MY same interest! The Iditarod was my obsession, mine! I didn’t have money growing up for posters of interests or idols, but if I did, my three posters would have been that of Libby Riddles (first woman to win the Iditarod in 1985), Gary Paulsen (fantastic author who ran the Iditarod twice in the 80’s) and Susan Butcher (was a force to be reckoned with on the trail in the mid to late 80’s, with an amazing Iditarod win record, who sadly passed away in 2006, the same year another of my idols, Steve Irwin, passed away).

I was so young, so in love with the Iditarod. When I first found out about it, I didn’t even know how to pronounce it, but it didn’t stop me from talking about it. “In-di-troyt” is what I called it. And I went on and on and on, talking about it, reading about it, annoying classmate with my facts. I think I was in 4th or 5th grade, when my classmates had enough. I was giving an oral report yet again on some aspect of the Iditarod or dog sled racing and the class refused to listen. “That’s all she does is talk about the Iditarod!” one boy yelled. I stood at the front of the classroom. A girl piped up “Yeah! You know, we have interests too! No one knows that I like tennis!” (I vividly remember this). The teacher a little confused, looked at the girl and said “Dianne’s love for the Iditarod does not detract from you love of tennis. If you wish to keep it private, that is fine. If you wish to share it as much as Dianne does, that is fine too.” The class stopped their protest and thought a moment. Shouts of favorite sports, career interests, travel and countries were all being stated and shared. It was interesting and weird that for whatever reason my classmates kept these interests in to themselves. But I simply couldn’t. The Iditarod was everything to me.

I owned, (I can’t hardly say owned) I had the pleasure of spending fourteen fantastic years with my dearest friend Elffy, my Keeshond, Australian Shepard mix, dog. He is my familiar. I will never have a dog like him again and it will be great to see him again (afterlife). November 1997, I had the misfortune of being at a classmate’s birthday party. Her and I were okay with each other, not friends by any means, but I got an invite, and I was there at the party. I was nine years old and this is well before cell phones are commonplace, especially for a child. The classmate’s mother was horrible, as she repeatedly had comments about my size and weight, which she shared with me publicly in front of my other classmates. Needless to say, I was a hefty kid but needless to say that woman was a bitch! I had no way of contacting my parents to let them know I had enough, so I had to just sit there and take it. I was sitting outside when my parents arrived. I jumped in the full size, 80’s, Dodge Ram van we had. I said I was done, and I wanted to go. My mom said we couldn’t just leave the party without telling my classmate’s mother I had left. She needed to know. I said the mother wouldn’t care and I didn’t want to go back in the house. My mother, slightly irritated from my lack of propriety, walked me into the party house so I could thank my classmate and her mother for the invite. When we got back to the van and were driving home, I explained to them what happened the whole time I was there. My parents had colorful words to say about that woman, but luckily kept it in the van, as my mother was the school board president and my father was very good at looking and sounding like a vengeful maniac when he lost his temper.

We got home, got cleaned up and were on our way to church when we got a phone call. My mother’s friend’s friend’s dog, Foxy, was in labor. They were looking for some extra help in delivering puppies (my mother and her friend were veterinary assistants at the time). My mother told my father that she was taking me to deliver puppies in hopes it would help alleviate my miserable afternoon.

I was beyond excited! I was getting out of church and I was going to help deliver puppies! Holy cow! When we got there, Foxy was delivering but struggling to care for the babies. She would get confused about which puppy was still in the birth sac and would tend to a different puppy that was already licked off, nursing and fine. So with each puppy that was born, we would take the older puppies away from her, leaving the new newborn for her to care for. Each time this would happen (Foxy had 14 puppies) I would take the second born pup – the one with three dots on his chin. I instantly named him Elffy, after a white dog with a blue blanket in a Puppy In My Pocket set I had. My mother was right. Helping deliver puppies was exactly what I needed.

At the time our family had a dog named Calvin. Calvin was a good, swell dog, a great family dog. But I wanted my own dog, I wanted a puppy. So I asked Santa, since August of 1997, for a puppy for Christmas. “What do you want for Christmas, Dianne?” my mother would ask. “A puppy.” I would always respond. “Well Dianne,” she would say, “sometimes Santa can’t bring puppies for Christmas. See, the elves make toys – not pets, and the sled in only so big – a puppy needs space, and do you know how cold it is at the North Pole? What else would you like for Christmas?” See, my parents must have forgotten that two years prior, Santa came through for me. I asked for A gerbil and he totally blew me away when he brought me TWO gerbils. I knew that Santa could get me a puppy, but I didn’t know if that was actually in his plans. So I would always respond to the repeat of the same question with “puppy food” or “a leash and a collar”. I only wanted a puppy.

I was raised Catholic in Wisconsin so Saint Nick visited our house each December 5th and on the morning of the 6th we would have treats in our stockings. It was fun because it would be the thing to talk about at school. “What did Saint Nick bring you?” It was so much fun.

I went to class, excited to talk about my treats. I started my day in my favorite teacher’s classroom. I took my seat at my desk and waited for class to start. Boy did my teacher start class with a bang. She wanted to tell us what the weatherman had said on TV that day – but first she had to ask the question, the special code that all kids learn when they “understand.” She asked the class, “Do you know about Santa?” Everyone nodded. I hadn’t heard such a silly question before. Santa? Duh – everyone knows about Santa. He comes on Christmas Eve, leaves you presents – he was a great guy, man he was the best! Must be awesome living in snow all year and even though he does not have a dog team to pull him from houses to houses, he does have reindeer, which is almost as cool, but yeah – I know about Santa, he is awesome! I was so confused about the question. My favorite teacher went on to explain that the weatherman had received quite a nifty gadget from “Saint Nick” and that he was sure to thank his mother right away in the morning. My teacher went on to say that we too should thank our parents for the gifts we received that morning. My world crashed. Was I the only one who didn’t know? I was the second youngest in the class, but was I really the only one who was in the dark? There was no magic? Nothing was real. I spent the whole day at school feeling embarrassed, lost, sad and lied to. I got home from school totally worn out and sad. Mom asked me how my day was, and I just blurted out. “You are ____, aren’t you?” She just sat there wide eyed and stunned. I cried. I felt foolish and stupid! She demanded to know who told me and I told her that my favorite teacher said it during class. Now and then teachers have to call students’ parents, but I wonder how many times the teacher gets a phone call from a parent due to “bad behavior.” Well, my favorite teacher got one.

My teacher was so sorry, she asked the class, didn’t realize, never meant for anything bad, didn’t know, only wanted to teach a lesson for the class to be thankful. It was supposed to be a good lesson, a positive experience. And it was. My mother told me not to ruin it for my younger brother and I promised not to. But I knew. They knew I knew. And they knew I wanted a puppy.

So when I went to go visit the puppies, mid-December, I was expecting to play with rambunctious fluff balls. Not so! When I got there, one fuzzy pup walked over to me, laid on my lap and fell asleep. He didn’t play. He slept. I didn’t move him; thus, I did not play with any other puppies – I watched them though – and I just sat and pet the pup on my lap, Elffy. And it actually was Elffy. Elffy was one of the few puppies with spots on his chin, and this puppy had a little bit of a white spot on his chin. Also, the family kept track of which one he was.

This was a surprise litter and thus they needed homes for the puppies. Most were spoken for but Elffy didn’t play and so he was overlooked. He was the last puppy spoken for. Since “Santa” really could get me a puppy after all, Elffy made it to our house on Christmas day.

Elffy was a very mellow dog, not moving if he didn’t have to, unless there was food involved. He would do anything for a marshmallow. This didn’t stop me from tying my plastic sled to his leash, teaching him mushing commands and being quite certain I was going to build my mushing team around him. My Iditarod goal was never to win the Iditarod – but to finish it – with a team comprised of rescue dogs. Yes, Elffy was a present, but he was fast on his way to the shelter as not many people were interested in a pup that barely moved.

Now that I had my main dog, my scanning for Iditarod information skyrocketed. I needed to know everything about mushing. I usually had a mushing book with me, including the time we went to the hospital to visit one of our parish’s priests that were ill. My parents did most of the visiting while my brother paged through a library book on fighter jets and I paged through a library book on mushing. A poor unsuspecting nurse casually asked my brother and I what we were reading. My brother, who could name any car, jet or helicopter at a glance and spew facts about them, simply said “jets.” I didn’t let the nurse off that easily. I wouldn’t let her leave the room without explaining the ins and outs of my book. My mother shushed me a couple of times, but I wouldn’t relent. The nurse said it was fine, in fact, she knew of a kennel that might interest me. The nurse hadn’t been there but heard about it and knew roughly where it was. She gave my parents the info, smiled at me and left. I went back to reading my book, forgetting about the kennel.

A while later, as a surprise, my parents took my brother and I out to this kennel. This is before the internet was mainstream. We didn’t call or make an appointment, we just showed up! My parents explained to the owners that we got info about the kennel from our priest’s nurse. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Russell, smiled and waved us in, welcoming us to Storm Kloud Kennels.

People in the dog world would be falling off their chairs. Storm Kloud Kennels? You just went to Storm Kloud Kennels?! Mr. and Mrs. Russell were quite the duo. Mr. Russell collected cars – which he showed some of to my brother. He was also a game or wildlife warden of sorts. (At least that is how I remember the conversation going). They rescued wildlife that was illegally harbored. While we were there, bobcats sat on my lap and sucked on my fingers, (as kittens, the front teeth were removed before being sold as pets – then they were confiscated), fed monkeys, (they really do not make easy pets – as such they are dumped when they get out of hand) viewed wolves in their sectioned off area – begging for food, heard stories of their rescue fox that was in a commercial, saw the cage that housed their lion (again, cute as a cub, but as they grow…then what?) and most importantly to me, saw their AKC registered Alaskan Malamute kennel that Mrs. Russell ran. Storm Kloud Kennels has produced many amazing champions – this being an understatement. But what became most important to me, Mrs. Russell bred and owned the only AKC registered Alaskan Malamute team to compete in the Iditarod, in 1994. I had the ultimate pleasure of meeting four of these dogs on my first visit and trained with the kennel twice – once with a sled and once on a “summer run” on an ATV. I will brag just this once and tell you Mrs. Russell invited me to be a hand in training with the kennel. But I was not 16, and thus relied on my parents for rides. My parents worked multiple jobs and money was tight. No transportation and no money made working with the kennel not an option. When I did get money and a vehicle, Storm Kloud Kennels had moved to Colorado, thus my chance at training with them was gone. But my love for the Iditarod and mushing and the dog team was still very much alive.

As the years moved on, life changed here and there, and mushing was always an interest. I got through that nasty part of life, high school, and went to college determined to learn a skill to help me get a job to pay for my hobbies and allow me to own a kennel. What I should have done was follow Mrs. Russell’s advice and move to Alaska upon graduating high school and learned the ins and outs of dog sled racing under a large kennel. But I didn’t. I worked for the government in a soul crushing string of disappointing jobs. Elffy, my beloved friend, passed away at fourteen years old. I then got into a car accident that derailed my life. Goals and dreams were taken from me due to constant debilitating pain and the unhealthy lifestyle that comes with constant pain, suffering and hopelessness.

Knowing that the Iditarod was nowhere in sight but incapable of letting the dream die, my then fiancé, now husband, and I started looking at houses and only considered looking at houses that resided in cities/areas that allowed more than two dogs. Hartford caught our attention because three dogs were allowed per property with the ability to apply for a fancier’s permit, which would legally allow us to own more dogs. No, we wouldn’t run a kennel at that property, but we could start getting a feel for short distance mushing by having a couple of dogs, for the fun of it, not competition.

Two things though. The pain. Words cannot describe constant, debilitating back pain, especially when one has no diagnosis (medical providers could not pinpoint the cause of the pain after the accident). Secondly, we side stepped and adopted two short haired pups (along with our older Boston terrier mix). And we loved them. We cared for them, walked them, took them to the beach, went teardrop camping with them – they were a part of the family. The two pups were exactly what we needed at that time. Bulma, Broli and Jude forced me to get out and walk and explore and have adventures with them.

But then the worst possible thing happened. Broli, my 124 pound, awesomely steady, excellent walking partner, started attacking the other two dogs. We changed his diet, changed how he was fed, put him in his own baby crib near the other two dogs when we left the house, got him medically tested, fixed his UTI and walked him constantly. Yet he still attacked Bulma and Jude and with increasing intensity. Then he started getting human aggressive after attacking a dog. The hardest, worst decision I ever had to make was to put my walking buddy to sleep. Early on, when I was much younger, I swore to myself that I would never have to put a dog to sleep for such a stupid reason. I would find a solution for such issues, I would alter my life, I would figure it out. But it didn’t work. I failed. I failed Broli and I failed myself. And I failed Jude who got hurt and I failed Bulma who is now highly reactive around dogs she does not know. I can’t walk her in a residential setting like where we currently live because she loses focus and control if she sees of hears another dog.

I swore off the Iditarod and mushing and a kennel and rescuing dogs. If I couldn’t keep control of three dogs, how was I going to control twenty? I was angry, upset, confused, depressed and ill. Fall of 2017 was hard.

Fast forward to February 2020, Lucas, my husband, was approached regarding a job and we knew we were moving. Since October of 2017, I swore I would only own one dog at a time from there on out. But as we looked at houses, I realized I was not looking in areas that only allowed two dogs. This dream that had been seemingly lost, taken from me, destroyed, and then suppressed was still there.

I joined a Facebook group – Pennsylvania Sled Dogs – and one of the first posts from the group that came on my feed was an article on Mrs. Nancy Russell and Storm Kloud Kennels. And it made me remember my love for the Iditarod, mushing, the team, the survival, the adventure, the dog rescue and the goal and message associated with it all – completing the Iditarod, not winning, but completing the Iditarod with a rag-tag team of rescue mutts helps show that rescue dogs are not garbage, second rate or pointless. They are great dogs too. It was all still there.

I recently adopted a family of guinea pigs (more on that later). Guinea pigs have about a seven year life span. Jude is quite old, approaching fourteen years. Bulma is seven years old. She will most likely be an only dog once Jude passes away. I am guessing she will live to be around fourteen, which is roughly when our family of guinea pigs will have lived a full and complete life. I really wanted these guinea pigs as a replacement to having a pack of dogs right now. Because even though I said I didn’t want to have multiple dogs – it didn’t stop me from missing hanging out with the pack I grew up with. Now don’t read this wrong – I am not longing for my pets’ deaths – no, never! Jude is going to live forever, he better! I am just attempting to have a plan.

We bought in to an area that allows three dogs. Three dogs would make a good, lighthearted sprinting team – just for fun. In seven years, I won’t have to explain to a four year old for the hundredth time this week, that she is not allowed to poke a pet in the eye, ride a dog or overfeed a pet. At eleven, she may even take a liking to mushing, exactly like I did.

So as I am kept busy with my rescue mutts and my rescue rodents, I can prepare for the thought of mushing. When I went to Iditarod.com, to verify the date for the 49th running of the Iditarod in 2021 (March 6th, 2021) I didn’t realize all the emotions that would come flooding in by staring a one number. The 49th running is in 2021 which means the 50th running is supposed to be in 2022. My childhood self had so much faith in my current self. I wasn’t supposed to be a stay at home mom in Pennsylvania – I was supposed to be in Ashland county or Bayfield county in Wisconsin – the two counties that average over 100 inches of snow fall per year. Or maybe even Northern Minnesota, like Gary Paulsen was. Or even better yet, Alaska. I was going to live a grueling, amazing, wild adventure. I was going to run the 50th Iditarod. I would surely have my shit together at 33 years of age.

2022 is going to come and go. I will not be mushing in the Iditarod, volunteering in the Iditarod, a spectator at the Iditarod, have a team or be anything close to a musher. Life happens and priorities change, and that is okay because I am doing the best I can with what I have right now. I am doing the best I can with my priorities, time, space, supplies and sanity. I may not have posted much here in 2020, but I was needed in other areas of my life – my family needed me.

Life has been crazy for everyone. Whatever your goals and ambitions are, and I am presuming it is your health, not so much the Iditarod, bring them to the forefront. Ask yourself if you are doing your best. How can you do better? I’m doing my best, but I am going to push for even better, working within my current circumstances. I’m asking you to do the same. Past goals may have come and gone, you may have had setbacks, but let’s work with what we have now to make the best of what we have. Let’s do this together!