100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization (15 page)

The Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, held every spring in Alaska, is considered one of the world's most grueling sporting events. Teams of sled dogs traverse the state's frozen wastes, covering some 1,100 miles (1,770 km) in eight to fifteen days. The contest was created to commemorate an even more grueling event—the 1925 serum run to Nome. That legendary achievement was no mere race for a trophy; it was a race for life itself. And without the selfless service of dozens of great, and two
really
great, sled dogs, it might well have been lost.

The saga began in the winter of 1925, when a potentially deadly diphtheria epidemic threatened the far northern town of Nome. The nearest supply of antitoxin was more than a thousand miles (1,610 km) away in Anchorage. With no trustworthy road connection, train, or aircraft service and a bitter Arctic winter in progress, the tiny spot on the map was as isolated as if it were on the moon.

Only one form of transportation seemed up to the challenge—dogsled. The twenty-pound (9 kg) container of serum was taken north by rail to the town of Nenana, which was literally the end of the line. Then, on the night of January 27, it was handed
over to the first of almost two dozen “mushers,” charged with carrying it safely, over 674 miles (1,085 km) of snow-covered, viciously cold tundra, to the citizens of Nome.

More than one hundred dogs participated in the serum run, but two stand out. The first and greatest was Togo, a massive Siberian husky who led the sled team of musher Leonhard Seppala. Togo was up to the task, to say the least. The forty-eight-pound (22 kg) canine and his team had to travel 170 miles (274 km) in three days just to reach the spot on the route where they picked up the serum. Then the dogs covered the most difficult stretch of the course, traveling in near-whiteout conditions and gale-force winds that gave the air a wind chill of negative seventy degrees Fahrenheit (−57°C). Seppala became hopelessly disoriented and relied on Togo to keep the sled on the seemingly invisible trail. As Togo led the group across the treacherous, ice-covered Norton Sound, they became trapped on a piece of ice that broke away from the rest of the thick ice sheet. While still wearing his leather harness and traces, Togo leaped five feet (1.5 m) to solid ice so he could pull the sled to safety. Togo's harness broke during the attempt, but he used his teeth to retrieve it from the icy water. Grasping the leather traces in his jaws, he then pulled the floe to the ice sheet so Seppala, the sled, and the other dogs could proceed. Togo gave every last bit of his
strength to the effort, and was lamed for life in the process.

About fifty miles (80 km) outside of Nome, the serum was handed over to a fresh sled team, led by a dog named Balto. This was the canine who brought the medicine to the stricken town and became a celebrity. A famous statue of Balto was even erected in New York City's Central Park in 1925.

Those in the know, however, considered Seppala and Togo to be the true heroes. And though he played second fiddle to Balto, Togo created a legacy far more lasting than any mere statue. After retiring from sledding, he became one of the founding sires of the modern Siberian husky line. Though he died in 1929, his strength and intelligence live on in his legion of descendants.

Jacqueline Susann is remembered for two things—becoming the first “celebrity novelist” by relentlessly promoting her books on TV talk shows, and for writing
Valley of the Dolls
, a trashy show business tell-all that sold an unprecedented 20 million copies, making it one of the most popular novels of all time.

But the work of the world's greatest pulp fiction writer might never have seen print were it not for her poodle, Josephine. Susann acquired the dog in 1955, when she resided in New York City and made her living on the lowest links of the show business food chain. She wanted to be a writer, and even had an idea for a novel about starlets who have their lives destroyed by illicit drugs and sex—but no one would give her the time of day. So instead she served up a funny, semi-true memoir about her relationship with her poodle, whom she often dressed in outfits that matched her own. Published in 1963,
Every Night, Josephine!
was a modest success. It gave Susann enough clout to get
Dolls
printed—and the rest, as they say, is publishing history.

Back in 1889, when Yale University unveiled a bulldog named Handsome Dan, the idea of a live animal representing a school was quite new. Dan, an enormous, muscle-bound bulldog, certainly seemed perfect for the job. Purchased for five dollars from a local blacksmith, he was the very embodiment of the never-say-die spirit coveted by sports teams. According to one contemporary observer, he looked “like a cross between an alligator and a horned frog.”

The first Dan, who delighted fans with his near-pathological hatred of anyone decked in Harvard crimson, stayed on the job until his death in 1898. Yet his legacy lives on. More than a dozen “Handsome Dans” have held his post since then, with varying degrees of success. Several were “retired” when they were found to be afraid of crowds, and one developed the unfortunate but highly amusing habit of attacking
the mascots of opposing teams. Fans of the original Handsome Dan can still see his preserved body, in all its glowering glory, inside a glass display case at Yale's Payne Whitney Gymnasium.

Several years ago the British tabloid the
Sun
ran a list of the world's ten richest pets—a decidedly rarified roster consisting of various nonhumans who inherited millions from their loving but deceased owners. Topping all the rest was a German shepherd named Gunther IV. The dog was allegedly worth about $100 million—an inheritance from his father, Gunther III, who received the cash in 1992 in the will of his dear departed mistress, a German countess named Karlotta Liebenstein.

Various newspapers called this story into question, wondering whether the whole thing was some sort of bizarre hoax. But Gunther IV, who regularly appeared in public, really seemed to have a great deal of cash behind him. On November 11, 2002, Gunther (and two members of his “staff”) turned up at an auction in Italy, where he—through intermediaries, of course—paid three million lira for a rare truffle.

Gunther IV made his biggest waves in the Miami Beach real estate market. In 1999 the mainstream press was filled with reports that he—or rather, his acquisitive human associates—were negotiating to purchase Sylvester Stallone's beachfront estate for a reported $25 million. Failing at that,
the dog and his two-legged flunkies plunked down $7.5 million for Madonna's former Miami residence. According to Gunther's Web site, the lucky dog moved into the Material Girl's master suite, while the rest of the house was taken over by his companions—a mysterious group of five twentysomething humans called “the Burgundians.”

And therein hangs a tail. Or rather, tale. Described online as “five euphoric young people,” the Burgundians looked like severely over-tanned Eurotrash—but that wasn't the full story. They were, apparently, a severely over-tanned Eurotrash
pop group
. Gunther served as the front “man” for a collection of international investors intent on turning the three girls and two boys into a singing sensation. How this agenda was advanced by having them consort with a rich German shepherd is anybody's guess, but their money was for real, even if the story about Gunther inheriting it was made up. At last report, Gunther was still enjoying his stay in Madonna's master suite. No word on what happened to the Burgundians.

Sports commentator and former NHL coach Don Cherry is a Canadian national icon. A longtime regular on the television sports show
Hockey Night in Canada
, he rose to fame in the 1970s as head coach of the Boston Bruins. During his three-year tenure with the team, Cherry developed a reputation for eccentricity and flamboyancy. He was also a great fan of “physical” (by which he meant combative) play. It's even been said (and Cherry has never denied) that he modeled the team's playing style after the take-no-prisoners attitude of his female English bull terrier, Blue.