Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk

Line Out!

    By Laura Rodley

Lana knew the rules. No lame dogs allowed to run in the Can-Am Crown 250 Race, a race she’d been training for the last three years. The dogs you start with, you must finish with. Already at the race site, Myra had come up lame, and was not allowed to race. Keeping her expenses low, she only owned ten sled dogs, and she was waiting for her son Ian to bring her dog Keena as substitute for her eight-dog team. She needed this race to qualify for the Iditarod.

Others may race with twelve dogs, but she counted on the strength of her dogs and her own abilities to see them through, to win. She allowed herself no margin for error, yet had to save money. Some people arrived two days before the race; she arrived the night before. She wasn’t going to bring Keena, or Wallace, but something told her to, her intuition. She sat in the coffee shop tapping her fingers on her second steaming cup of tea. After her call to Ian, her cellphone battery ran out. She wanted to charge her phone, but power was off in the shop. Happens all the time, the owner said. Their stove ran on propane gas in large 200-gallon tank canisters. They had kerosene lamps. Fairy lights twinkling outside the window in the morning dark ran on solar panels, blinking blue, red, green, reflected on the glass.

Main Street, Fort Kent, Maine was teaming with tourists in ski suits, face masks, in the freezing wind, minus three-degree weather. Lana wiggled her toes in her Trans-Alaska insulated boots, a musher’s godsend. Overdressed for indoors, she wished she was outside with the harnessed dogs, curled up in snow and hay outside the shop, but she needed a checkpoint so Ian wouldn’t get lost. He’d been so lost. Nearly not come back. Last year, she found him overdosed on heroin on their couch when she came home from nursing night-shift. She had Narcan in her bag—a nurse is always prepared—administered it, called the ambulance. The doctors said if she hadn’t administered Narcan when she did, well… He entered rehab. He came back from nearly dying, but never the same, though she never mentioned it. He was slower in his uptake of information, slower to absorb information, in a way only a mother would know. He loved the dogs as much as she, and needed a purpose. Eighteen now, his recovery was up to him though she was still paying off his rehab bills, why she needed to win this qualifying race.

First rule of nursing: take care of yourself first, so you can take care of others. Lana found that taking care of others was the same as taking care of herself, and that taking care of the dogs was the same as taking care of herself, feeding them Inukshuk 32/32 dry dog food so they’d have highest chance of performing as the athletes they were. Ian had dog fever too. If he didn’t show up soon with Keena, she’d be disqualified. She fingered the metal outline of her entry badge inside her coat—777—her lucky number. If he didn’t come soon, all their efforts would all be wasted. As he was designated handler, she’d already handed him her car keys, couldn’t drive to retrieve Keena.

Door chimes rang as excited people entered The Sunday Fox Coffeehouse. She looked through the fairy lights, remembered when Ian was born, the same fairy lights decorating her town. There he was, Keena straining at her harness, with Wallace.

She leaped up, ran out the door, chimes clanging. “Ian,” she yelled. “Over here.”

“Hiya Mom, Keena’s so excited it was hard to harness her. Took me longer. She kept going round in circles. Motel owner didn’t like Wallace barking, so I had to bring him.”

“Good job. Let’s get her in harness, to the start line.” Lana hugged Ian. “Afterwards you can bring Myra and Wallace back to the motel. That’s good, you’ve already put on their booties.”

“You got some strong competition, Mom.”

At the barn by the start line, Lana attached her team to the sled big enough to carry a dog if it was injured, a bag for restraining a dog or cover a dog if it died, eight booties per dog, tethers, food.

She tapped the items’ placement on the sled as Ian read a checklist. “Food, gear dropped off for delivery at checkpoints. Ax, dog dishes, Inukshuk, sleeping bag, snowshoes, first aid kit, snub line, bib, phone.”

“Phone’s dead,” one of her own rules broken. Snapping snow goggles over her eyes, she stood on the footboards. “Gotta go. Love ya. See you at first checkpoint, Portage.”

“Gimme the phone, I’ll charge it.”

“Guard it with your life,” she said. “The vet already checked Myra’s foot. It’s sprained, so keep her off it, OK.”

“I will. Love ya.”

The large border collie-husky cross Wallace strained at the leash, barking. “Mom, you should take him as backup, you won’t have a second chance to call in a replacement. You have to race with the dogs you start with.”

“You’re right.” She patted the reserve space. Wallace hopped up. She clicked him into the seat belt harness. He licked her hand, quiet.

Ian said, “You’re going to win this race, Mom, I know it.”