Chapter 17 Seventeen
The Dogs Become Zoomates
The dogs started barking as soon as the train pulled into Cleveland at 9 a.m. on Wednesday, March 16. They were quickly uncrated, put on leashes and led off the train. But there was no repeat of the long-ago scene in Seattle, when the team was engulfed by fans, reporters and photographers. This time, there was no official welcome, no blinding cameras, no smothering fans. Train-lagged and stiff from their 79-hour trip, the dogs would soon get what they most needed: a good stretch and a good meal.
A city truck whisked them away to the Brookside Zoo, where they were taken to the basement of a large building that housed lions, tigers and parrots. To the exotic din of roar and squawk, the dogs were fed all-they-could-eat servings of boiled beef, dog biscuits and milk. They ate quickly, then went to bed — gladly — behind a wire screen inside the kennel-sized crates from the train.
For the next two days, the dogs rested, ate and played in the building's basement and outdoors. A team of veterinarians examined them all, pronouncing each to be in “reasonably good health,” the Plain Dealer reported. Each day, the dogs were escorted outside and allowed to run around the zoo grounds. They were petted lavishly by the kindly zoo staff and — yes! — their little paws were lovingly massaged, just as in the old days in Alaska, when Kaasen would sometimes rub them energetically to remove the ice after an especially hard run. But these massages were more gentle — more sensual, or luxurious. They made the dogs tingle and want to roll around! Everyone was so nice!
After so much suffering and sadness, the dogs began to come alive again, one by one, like a sleeping princess and six sleeping princes awakening from a spell. The life that had drained out of them in the dime museum began to flow back, filling them with renewed vigor, spirit and Siberian husky-ness! They would soon be their old selves again. But would the good time last?
Chapter Eighteen
Cleveland Celebrates “Balto Day”
On Saturday, the zoo staff mounted the team's long wooden sled on a dolly, or platform with wheels. The dogs were to pull the sled through the city's streets in a big parade at 1:30 p.m., but there was no snow. Hopefully, the wheels would glide over cobblestones and streetcar tracks as smoothly as iron runners over snow!
All morning, a light drizzle fell on the elegant Lake Erie port city. But the enthusiasm of the dogs’ many well-wishers was undampened. By 1 p.m., thousands of fans lined the downtown parade route, standing six and eight deep at every curb. Thousands more hung their heads out of high office windows to glimpse the famous dogs — and to soak up the good feeling that flooded the city like Erie overrunning its banks.
At 1:30 p.m., the parade left Frankfort Avenue at Sixth Street for the long march to City Hall. Four mounted police officers, dressed in bright yellow rain slickers, led, followed by a dozen more police officers on motorcycles. The members of the Balto Committee rode by in 15 Buick sedans, followed by more police on motorcycles.
Next came Costello's 12-piece band, which everyone knew because it had played at Indians’ opening games for years. The musicians roused the crowd with their brass instruments. A troop of bright-faced Boy Scouts shyly carried a 10-foot-by-12-foot map of Alaska, showing the exact route of the serum run. Then came the dolly, pulled by Balto and his six teammates looking more regal and brave than ever!
Balto held his head high, carrying himself with the natural dignity of a true leader. (The next day, a reporter would describe him in the paper as having a “fox-like keenness, with ears that are always alert.”) Even Old Moctoc, the oldest dog, rallied, caught up in the fun ride and cheering. With his sharp features and coarse coat, some people thought he was a wolf!
A zoo attendant with a long leash walked alongside each dog — just in case, though the dogs were harnessed to the sled. To make the sled-float seem authentic, the zoo staff had rigged it for the North, with a 300-pound pretend load lashed under a bearskin. There was even a pretend package of diphtheria serum — a small box wrapped in fur to keep the “serum” from freezing.
“The Nightingale of Alaska,” Miss Marye P. Berne, a cabaret singer who was brought up in the Alaska Klondike, stood in for the missing Kaasen as driver. Dressed in her old fur parka and hood, fur boots and fur gloves, the former musher rode the 12-foot sled's brake — a large iron claw under the platform — to slow Balto down when things got rolling too fast. And they did — about every other block.
Five “sourdoughs,” or old Alaska hands, who lived in Cleveland, escorted the team to prevent mishaps. Fortunately, they were able to stop the dogs in the nick of time each time they threatened to knock the Boy Scouts onto the sidewalk or run into the band member's heels.
The hour-long parade wound its way in stops and starts through the city's public square — down Euclid Avenue, Ninth Street, Prospect Avenue, 14th Street; up Euclid and Ninth Street again to Sixth Street and, finally, to City Hall for a special ceremony on the steps.
Judge James B. Ruhl, chairman of the Balto Committee, gave a short but moving speech that is still quoted today. “The dog is man's best friend,” the judge said solemnly. “A dog's love is akin to a mother's love. He is man's last friend when the cloud of misfortune hangs over him. And he is to be found watching at his master's grave when the last friend has departed.”
With those words, the good feeling breached its banks. Tears spilled over, rolled down fat little cheeks and even stubbly beards. The huge crowd thought about how much mankind owed the humble dog for all its help down through the ages. It was a debt that never could really be repaid. But one city could help seven dogs — could take good care of them and give them the comfortable retirements they deserved. The great heart of Cleveland, composed of all the little hearts of the people, opened wide and welcomed the dogs home.
Chapter Nineteen
The Dogs Receive
Their First Visitors
Balto Day in Cleveland became Balto Weekend. On Sunday, the day after the parade, thousands of well-wishers visited the zoo to meet the dogs.
The team's new outdoor pen wasn't yet ready, so the dogs received visitors in their basement digs — after a hearty breakfast of a pound of raw meat each and veggies. People who hadn't visited the zoo in years climbed out of bed like sleepwalkers, heading to the zoo almost without thinking, as if they had been programmed. They knew only that the zoo was the place to be on Sunday, and that they wanted to go there. And Balto and his six teammates were the star attractions, more popular than any of the other animals.
People who had only glimpsed the dogs from the parade's sidelines wanted to gaze fully into the dogs’ handsome faces, peer into their intensely alive, bright eyes, bask in their special magic, which was the magic of their breed, really. (Huskies, you may recall, were still rare in the 48 states that then made up America.) But there was something else, too.
The dogs were like proud veterans home from a long war after many battles: the dangerous serum run, their grueling travels across the country, their long prison sentence in the dime museum. These huskies were more than heroes; they were survivors: strong, resilient, deserving of the highest praise.
Over eight hours, 15,000 people swept through the zoo's turnstiles like a great wave. Al Kintzel, the dogs’ newly appointed keeper, directed the steady flow of human traffic in and out of the basement, gently cautioning, “Watch your step.” Thousands of children, their eyes round with wonder like pilgrims inching toward a shrine, led parents and grandparents down the narrow stone steps. “Come on,” they pleaded, tugging the sleeves of the adults in a most unpilgrimlike way. “I want to see Balto.”
None were disappointed. “Wynken, Blynken and Nod,” mused one small boy, who like many of the children, wished with all his heart he could take the dogs home. “I like Balto, Alaska Slim and Old Moctoc better.”
At noon, the bottleneck was halted and the dogs were taken outside for some fresh air and a short, brisk run. Then they trotted down to the basement and allowed themselves to be admired f
or four more hours — until the zoo finally closed for the day. Old Moctoc snoozed a bit, but that was to be expected. Once or twice, Balto was brought close to the children to be petted and hugged. For dinner, the dogs each ate two biscuits, which was all they wanted. They were too tired to eat more and quickly fell asleep.
Courtesy of Special Collections, Cleveland University Library.
Chapter Twenty
Moving Day
Within days, the zoo opened a new outdoor exhibit: the team's new home! Shaped like a half-moon — or a wide smile — the fenced-in area was grassed and had a large, leafy shade tree as shelter against the bright Midwestern sun and rain. Size-wise, it was considered generous for a dog yard then: 100 feet in diameter and 50 feet wide (a third the length of a football field and a third the width). The pen was described in a news story as “proper shelter,” a place where the dogs could live contentedly while on display.
They did. After the hoopla died down, the dogs continued to be one of the zoo's most popular exhibits, which was unusual: Many zoos display wild dogs, such as dingoes or wolves, but none display domestic dogs — the kind that humans, over thousands of years, have turned into loyal pets. You don't see Labs or poodles in zoos, do you? You don't see them today, and you didn't see them in the 1920s. Cleveland's Balto exhibit was something unique in the annals, or records, of zoo history. A zoo was simply an unusual place for domestic dogs to live, but then these dogs had led unusual lives.
But the zoo exhibit was no freak show, no cheap display of “animal oddities.” It was the dogs’ retirement home, a place where they could play, sleep, eat and rest — in relative peace and quiet and surrounded by nature.
There were fewer exhibits then, mostly animals of local origin, including raccoon, foxes, bears, deer and a flock of Canada geese. Prairie dogs and ostrich were among the few exotic species. The deer were nearby, but there were no other animal species that the dogs could see — just trees, flowers, landscaped walkways and lush parkland. The dogs were happy, especially in winter, when it snowed and they got to pull their sled around Brookside Park. They went on several runs a week. Balto remained the No. 1 leader, but Fox sometimes got to lead, too.
Chapter Twenty One
A Great Heart Falters
In 1930, the dogs watched a huge construction project unfold like a magic trick: the Fulton Road Bridge. The zoo grounds were cradled in a narrow valley and, with more and more people driving cars, an overpass was needed to ease traffic and connect Fulton Road to the rest of the city.
Soon, people were driving over the valley instead of around it, taking them right over the far end of the zoo — and practically over the dogs’ heads. For the curious dogs, the sights and sounds of the bridge being built and later, the endless whiz of cars, were a constant source of entertainment.
But the dogs were growing old. Each day, they played a little less and slept a little more until one by one, they died. By March 1933 — six years after the team's arrival at the zoo — only two dogs were left. Gone were Old Moctoc, the team's oldest member, with his wizened, wolf-like features, and Fox, the second-in-command after Balto in the dogs’ heyday of sled runs. Gone, too — but not forgotten by the children of Cleveland — were Alaska Slim, Billy and Tillie, with her gleaming gray-and-cream-colored coat. Only Sye and Balto remained, two old comrades, sharing their last days under a shade tree in the moon-shaped pen.
But Balto's great heart was faltering. Now age 11, he was partly deaf, partly blind and barely able to move his back legs, which were inflamed with arthritis and stiff. It was clear to his keeper, Captain Curley Wilson, that Balto was dying, breathing with difficulty and sleeping so much that every time he drifted off, Curly wondered whether he would awake.
Finally, a kind veterinarian, Dr. R.R. Powell, offered to ease Balto's last days — to make him more comfortable and gently end his struggle. Curley accepted, and Balto was carefully moved to Dr. Powell's animal hospital — just in time. He was slipping further beyond reach by the hour, plummeting through silence and whiteness into a comforting cloud castle of unconsciousness.
The distressing news was reported in the papers, setting off an avalanche of phone calls from children to the zoo. “How's Balto?” “Is he suffering?” “How's Sye doing?” they wanted to know. Zoo officials assured the children that Balto was in good hands.
But Sye was lonely, moaning and howling inconsolably as if a full moon had emerged from behind a cloud. He paced back and forth in his pen like an agitated prisoner and barely touched his food. Sye was alone. Given his keen husky instincts, he must have known that his lifelong companion would never return.
Dr. Powell insisted on caring for Balto free of charge. He was glad to be of assistance, even honored to be entrusted with caring for the dog during his final hours. On Tuesday, March 14, the veterinarian injected the comatose, or nearly lifeless, dog with a drug to hasten his slide into peace. Balto died a few hours later — at 2:15 p.m. Sye had lost his best friend, and the people of Cleveland had lost a beloved pet.
Chapter Twenty Two
The Aftermath
The next day, an autopsy showed that Balto had died of old age. This made everyone feel a little better, knowing that there was nothing that could have been done — that it had just been Balto's time to die. All the dog's organs appeared to be normal except for his bladder, which was greatly enlarged. Balto lived to a “ripe age for a dog,” said Captain Wilson. In human years, he was “like a man past 70,” he said. Balto had had a long and interesting life, especially for a dog, and his last years had been good ones. Now, it was time to say goodbye.
But Balto's many friends at the zoo couldn't. Neither could the people of Cleveland. So the husky's still-impressive body was lovingly stuffed and mounted by a staff taxidermist at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History.
When he was done, Balto looked alive. His beautiful black fur was thick and glossy. The mount had poise, presence. Perhaps because the mount was created with so much feeling, it exuded something special: the old Balto magic, the unmistakable approximation of Balto's charisma and spirit. The mount wasn't disgusting or creepy. It was beautiful, like Balto.
“Instead of the vigorous pulsing body which took hope to Nome,” Balto's fur now was “stretched life-like” over an artificial form, the Plain Dealer wrote in an editorial.
The mount was all that Cleveland had left of the great dog, and the museum planned to take good care of it. It was a way to keep the story of Balto alive for posterity, so that he would never be forgotten.
Almost seven decades later, he hasn't been.
Chapter Twenty Three
The Epilogue
The year after Balto died, Sye, then 17, died of “bladder stones and complications,” the Plain Dealer reported, and the zoo's dog pen was torn down. Of the zoo's seven huskies, Sye was the only one to breed — he impregnated a German police dog. Hmm. How did that happen? No one any longer knows, if anyone ever did. Perhaps Sye broke out of the dog yard one day, saw a police dog that had strayed onto the zoo grounds, and made a beeline for her. Perhaps a zoo keeper or other member of the zoo staff arranged a secret tryst between Sye and the police dog to ensure that at least one of the seven dogs’ genes were passed on. (Such an anonymous match-maker could not have chosen Balto as Seppala had had him neutered.) Two weeks before Sye died, the German police dog gave birth to five pups, though only one survived. What happened to it? No one knows, but we like to think that a little part of Sye lives on somewhere.
In 1934, the same year Sye died, fire broke out in Nome, and the tiny Alaska town burned to the ground. It was rebuilt, and today 4,021 people live there. Every winter, the town's residents turn out to watch the winner of the 1,150-mile Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race cross the finish line downtown. The race honors the 1925 serum run by following part of the same trail that Balto and his fellow dogs took.
In 1929, the party decade ended with a loud pop when the stock market crashed. The value of individual stock shares plummeted,
in many cases to way below what people had paid for them. Many Americans lost most or even all of their investments. Banks, factories and shops closed, leaving millions of people jobless and penniless. It was one of the scariest times in U.S. history. Then in 1932, President Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected. In a moving inaugural speech, he said: “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” FDR — as the president was called — had many new ideas for how to help people and fix the economy. The reforms were pushed through Congress in just 100 days. The “New Deal” with the American people provided help to the poor and created thousands of jobs. A virtual army of Americans went to work for the government building highways, parks and zoos. Many writers and artists were given jobs, too. The country pulled together and the economy began to stabilize. But it took World War II to end the Great Depression, which affected most of the world. In the late 1930s, Germany and Japan attacked many countries in Europe and Asia. To fight the two enemies to world peace, the United States and its Allies had to greatly increase their production of weapons and other war materials. The war effort provided millions of people with jobs.
In 1930, the American Kennel Club recognized the Siberian Husky as a distinct breed.
Seppala's legendary dog, Togo, spent the sunset of his life in Poland Spring, Maine, with Elizabeth Ricker, Seppala's good friend and a champion sled-dog racer. In 1928, Ricker wrote Togo's Fireside Reflections, a charming work of fiction based on fact. In it, Togo stretches out luxuriously before a crackling fire in a cozy New England home and tells his life's story to two rapt children. “My mother was like the princess in your stories,” Togo begins. “She was beautiful and gentle and everyone who knew her loved her, but she was sometimes very sad and lonely, I think, for she was a long way from home. She had come from the Kolyma River in Siberia, and there were few other dogs in Alaska from there.” A few copies of the book still can be found in libraries, and occasionally one goes up for auction on the Internet. (In 1999, one copy sold for $128!)
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 5