:Spruce-Bud!” I call, dog harness in hand.
My big brown leader responds the same way every time I go out to harness a team of dogs. Ever eager to get hitched up, he springs to his feet on his picket with an ear-splitting holler: “A-a-rr-eee-oooh! Ai-eee-ooh!”
Only his brother Birch shrieks louder than Spruce. The two lanky 100 pounders take after their vociferous mother, Jade, instead of their ultra-quiet father Cricket.
My main leader for many years now, Spruce displays a pleasant combination of eager drive and a controllable, responsive attitude. Round brown eyes in a plain brown-dog face may make him appear unexciting, but in spite of his large size he’s one of the fastest leaders I’ve had the pleasure of running over the past decade. He has subsequently taught two succeeding generations to maintain that same fast, forward-focused gait.
The long back and exceedingly long legs that endow Spruce with that swift trot also allow him to prance along elbow-deep in snow that shorter dogs must plow through.
Although Spruce thrives on the inherent power and prestige of running lead, he has a mixed history up front. While he usually excels, under certain predictable circumstances he’s so unreliable I must move him back in the team, instead resorting to using a couple of his young pupils up front.
A joyous worker, he still takes his job seriously, with any rare scolding cutting to his heart.
Our dogs don’t get much practice at geeing and hawing but Spruce has managed to figure out that the former means “Turn right!” while the latter orders “Turn left!” Many of our dogs grew old before becoming reliable at these commands; Spruce mastered them as a youngster even with minimal drilling.
Hooking up a small team in February, I allowed them to rocket down the 200-foot hill to the river only to have the sled buck enough to eject me abruptly from the runners. Crashing into the snow, I bounced up hollering “Whoa! Whoa-a-a!”
Good ol’ Spruce, he managed to bring his four-dog team to a halt, not an easy job for a dog ahead of others bent on mowing him down. Once stopped, he held the team there until I regained the runners.
When our horses stand next to the trail, Spruce calmly leads his team right past. He once squeezed past them as they stood so close along the edge of the trail I had to yank the sled to one side to keep from hitting the two unphased Icelandics. His unexcited attitude cued the younger dogs behind him how to behave, so they made a beautiful pass.
He’s the dog we use when introducing youngsters to strangers. Always easy-going, he seems to delight in gently greeting people before rolling over on his back to wave impossibly-long legs terminating in big bony feet at his guests, begging for a petting. Few can resist his upside-down writhing and foot-flapping. His comical, laid-back welcoming of strangers demonstrates to impressionable young dogs that visitors can be more fun than frightening.
Spruce has also turned out to be the best of our crew when we introduce an unfamiliar dog. His relaxed demeanor reduces the stress of the visiting canine as well as the rest of Spruce’s crew.
I had to laugh when, after introducing Spruce to a neighbor’s dog, we brought over one of our youngsters for socialization. Open-minded after seeing his elder’s calmness, our young dog stepped forward eagerly to meet the newcomer when Spruce shoved in between them. Firm but completely unaggressive, he insisted on repeating this maneuver with each successive teammate, body-blocking to keep the two separated.
I don’t know if he wanted to forestall any potential aggression, or thought he needed to shield his teammate from the new dog, but he clearly had some definitive purpose in mind.
Of course no dog can be perfect. My big brown leader displays a couple significant weaknesses in the leadership department. He cringes in the face of wind, so on blustery days I leave him home when I can. Just as a strong, laugh-in-the-face-of-wind leader can pass that demonstrable courage on to the younger dogs, a hesitant one will pass on that less desirable trait.
Worst of all, he often fails completely when out on the lake ice. The expansive surface may be a solid three feet thick, but any cracking or popping emanating from it convinces Spruce it’s about to break up beneath him. Because ice creates noise not just when it’s actually breaking but also when contracting with cold, or settling from dropping water or a traveler’s weight — or for no apparent reason — every lake crossing creates a constant threat to the big dog’s sanity, and by extension, mine.
He’s fine as we travel, but once stopped he detects the slightest vibration through his sensitive feet, hears those pings or snaps or cracks, and doubles back into the team, balling everyone up as he tries to reach safety.
“Spruce!” I snarl, and he rolls his eye apologetically but fails to straighten out until I walk up to lead him forward only to try to follow me as I return to the runners.
That’s when a pair of his young cousins gets a turn up front. If I need the power, I move Spruce back into the team where, relieved of responsibility, he behaves. But if my remaining dogs don’t help pulling, I just turn him loose, allowing him to take up a position in loose lead, 100 feet ahead of the team, where he trots along confidently as if ice can no longer harm him.
Of course there was that one time when a near-constant snapping and pinging from the ice below proved too much for him. Turned loose, the lanky dog set a fast pace, gaining ground ahead of the team until he disappeared from sight altogether.
Eventually arriving home, I spied him rushing down from the dog yard to greet his team, glad to see me but with a stressed expression that I interpreted as chagrin at his dereliction of duty.
He makes up for these lapses by accelerating into overflow rather than hesitating as many dogs do. Even crossing from the beach out to floating spring ice across shorefast ice flooded with a foot or more of runoff water, he mounts a charge that, gratifyingly, the youngsters behind him emulate.
At eight years old, Spruce still runs lead, but now sleeps inside on cold nights or those windy ones that he hates so much. He lies on the rug by my chair, rolling onto his back and stretching his big feet at me, begging for a pat and then another.
Of course I can’t resist rubbing his lean belly. “Spruce-Buddy,” I murmur, and he flaps those impossibly long legs and begs for more. For my best bud, I’m always happy to oblige.
