I remember when Ringo was born, he came out bigger than the rest, vying for attention from that first day in a litter of seven, all good dogs, wonderful dogs, but none so great as Ringo. In fact, few except Ringo would make our race teams. His sister Cha-Cha did a few times, but most of them over the years went to pet homes, one by one, while Ringo stayed with us, running Beargrease and Can-Am and every race we did. He was made for distance. At the end of a 300-mile Beargrease, Ringo was just getting warmed up. He’d stand there in the finish chute, howling to go further.
In my rookie Beargrease Marathon, when we still ran from Duluth up the shore and all the way back down to Duluth, we were readying to leave Sawbill and I had just dropped a couple of dogs. But I was feeling pretty good about my place, I was probably in fifth at that time. I knew the next section of trail would be quite hilly and it was the middle of the day. I took off my boots and put on running shoes. Ringo seemed to sense that something exciting was happening, and as we left Sawbill he let out a yip. Within a mile we passed an intersection and let out another huge howl. This made the team lunge ahead. I was stunned. It was like someone had turned on the turbo boost. Every time we passed an intersection Ringo would scream and everyone would jolt ahead.
It wasn’t all roses to the finish, but we made it there in fourth place, which was a fine finish that year. Ringo finished every Beargrease we started. Another time in Can-Am, I was sick, but I quickly learned that when I coughed, this also made him yip and scream, which was definitely to my advantage on the monster mountain climbs in Maine. Once in a while I would even fake it so he would get the team going. It turns out he also loved lakes so Devil’s Track and Poplar were always a welcome sight for me as we’d fly if Ringo was in the team.
In later years, as Ringo neared retirement, he became my running buddy. And skijoring buddy. I’d take him on free runs from the dog yard, and even though he’d come visit us in the house after, he would always run back to his spot in the dog yard eventually. He liked his pack I suppose. One day this summer, I noticed he was dragging his back leg around. Long story short, it wasn’t fine. It was cancer. And like all cancers, it means death comes too soon.
Too many times this year, we have found ourselves singing the tune by Willy Tea Taylor, “My dog, my dog, that damn good dog, how I wish she was here, how I wish she was here…”
