ESKIMO DOGS
The value to the Eskimo of a good team of about five dogs is equivalent
to that of a kyak or a sled, or a reliable gun. To assess it in terms
of money would have no significance in a land where utility and
necessity alone determine the scale.
The breed is part, or half, wolf. In build, the true Eskimo dog is well
formed, almost slim about the hindquarters compared with the rest of
his body, the broad and sturdy chest, the strong neck and heavy jaws.
His hair is very thick, grey or tawny in colour, and his tail immensely
bushy, always carried erectly, curving over the back. He is a different
creature to the Samoyede and the Kentucky wolf hound; but probably
there is very little to distinguish him from the famous Alaskan “husky”
dog of so much literary fame, and the dog of the Labrador.
The dogs in Baffin Land are fed solely on seal flesh, unlike those of
the trappers and mail carriers in Alaska and elsewhere, who subsist on
a spare and spartan ration of frozen fish. Sacks of chopped seal are
always carried on the sleds for the dogs on a winter journey, skin and
hair included. They are wonderful travellers, although the speed with
which a trip may be accomplished depends on a good many other factors
than dog power alone. In the winter a team may average thirty miles a
day; or when conditions of ice and wind are particularly favourable
this figure may be doubled.
The Eskimo dogs begin their lives in quite pleasant domestic comfort.
They breed in the spring and autumn, and the puppies when born are kept
on the sleeping place in the tent or igloo, and played with by the
women and children in order to accustom them to being handled, and to
the scent of human beings. Otherwise they would grow up wild and
savage, and a trouble to their owners; and, moreover, might too easily
fall a fat and toothsome morsel to any particularly hungry parent or
stray wolf about the camp. They are pretty, playful puppies, full of
puppy imbecility and fun. When about six weeks old this halcyon period
of irresponsibility and shelter comes to an abrupt end. Out go the lot
into the hard world, to eat and sleep with the grown-up dogs of the
village. And immediately the puppy’s training begins. He has a
miniature harness made for him and a little sled. The small boys take
him in hand. They harness him and drive him about, to his unfathomable
disgust and their own diversion, until he becomes used to the process
and the various words of command.
As time goes on and he gets a little older his serious education
engages the attention of the men. Puppy is harnessed to the real sled
with the older dogs and has to help to drag it to the hunting grounds.
He objects strongly to leaving the village and what it has of
possibilities in the way of tit-bits; but the accustomed orders break
over his head in a fearful roar he has never heard before, and he
scares up a new obedience. Soon, however, he tries the effect of
rebellion, and bolts back on the trail, only to be brought up with a
jerk as he reaches the end of his line. He is unceremoniously dragged
along on his back, bumping over the rough ice, hating everything and
everybody, thinking life not a bit worth living and that the bottom of
his world has fallen out. He is rudely brought to! The leader of the
team knows what to do. Like a parent spanking a naughty child, the
leader sails in, and with many a forceful shake and many a shrewd nip
at every tender point, he forces Puppy to take his rightful station in
the team and do his best to pull. As he goes back to his own position
at the head the Leader just passes word along to the rest to follow his
example. They make quite a point of it. As often as the recruit shows a
tendency to slack off again, or so much as rolls an eye towards the
back trail, they give him a shake up or a nip on the leg to encourage
him to proceed, rather, in the right direction. He receives further
assistance towards this desirable fixity of purpose by an occasional
and painfully adroit flick of the hunter’s long driving lash.
A few days of this sort of thing, and the youngster registers the
lesson that discretion is the better part of valour. He learns to keep
his objections to himself.
The next thing to dawn upon his expanding mind is that dragging heavy
weights over the snow makes one’s feet uncommonly sore. The older dogs
knew that long ago, and lay down before starting in the morning, quite
willing to have their boots put on. The dog “boot” is merely an oblong
strip of seal leather with two holes for the nails to go through and a
couple of thongs to secure the ends round the leg. Everywhere in the
Arctics the freight dogs are obliged to have protection for their feet.
But Youngster, whose turn for practical investigation has ere this
convinced him that nothing is inedible except sticks and stones,
retires promptly to the back of the sled or behind the nearest cover,
and eats his boots there and then, with early morning relish. The team,
to a dog, say nothing, but start off as usual. Youngster licks his
lips, curls his tail, and feels good. But after a few miles something
of the curl goes out of his tail, his feet become tender and he droops
a little. The others plod on; he lags. Instantly comes the sting of the
whip or a nip of teeth like a vice. Youngster sprints ahead, only to
flag more and more, to limp and crawl at last with the pain in his
unprotected, wayworn feet. At the end of the day he simply staggers
home, a very sad and sobered Puppy. Leader strolls over, when he thinks
he will, looks at him en passant, and grins. The culprit adds another
mental note to his list of things not good for the digestion. No more
boots!
Comes another milestone on the hard path of learning and
virtue—pilfering.
Young dogs have to learn that everything on the sled is rigorously
taboo—for them. Not to be touched, or so much as sniffed at, on any
account whatever. This lesson can only be enforced by many a whipping.
For Youngster does so love to stroll past the sled with a preoccupied
air, hands in pocket as it were. If he were a human being he would hum
a hymn tune. Then, just in that flick of time when no one seems to be
looking, he steals a mouthful of seal-meat or blubber. Instantly
retribution envelops him. He is severely thrashed. If an experience of
this sort repeated once or twice does not cure him his master becomes
harsh indeed. The hunter must at all costs gain and keep the ascendancy
over his dogs. The thief has his head forced hard back with the mouth
wide open, and the man smashes out the two long upper fangs with the
back of his hunting knife. That bit of violence completes this part of
Youngster’s spartan education.
He graduates by learning how to smell for seal holes in the ice, how to
tackle a bear, how to defend himself, how to guard the tent or igloo,
how to brave every extreme of bitter weather. When an Eskimo dog knows
all this he becomes a valuable asset to his master.
The Eskimo drives his sled team spread out fanwise. In this formation
they are less likely to break through the snow crust than if driven
Indian fashion, one ahead of the other. The tandem style is suitable
for wooded country, where there is no room to expand and where it is
imperative to keep to a narrow, perhaps ill-defined trail; but in the
Arctics one of the greatest dangers of travelling is to fall into deep
snow. Men and dogs alike can be smothered if the crust gives way, for
their struggles only cause them to sink the deeper. The dogs are driven
by word of command only (i.e., orders to get up, start, straight ahead,
right or left, lie down), and by the whip, a tremendously long thong of
white whale hide attached to a short stock. Half the art of dog driving
consists in the right management of this difficult whip. It has to sail
out to touch just the right dog in just the right place, and should
crack sharply at the tip. The Leader is the most important, reliable
and experienced dog in the team. He is attached to the sled by a longer
trace than the others, so that he runs ahead of them, and his position
is in the centre. It goes without saying that he is very conscious of
his eminence, and gives himself insufferable airs.
In camp the team always sleep curled round in the snow, if not in the
porch at least near their master’s dwelling, ready for any scraps that
may be flung out; and woe betide any other dog who dares to come near,
or even essays to pass by! There is a rush and the outsider is severely
mauled. Another time, he makes a wide détour. The people never leave
the tents without a guard if they can possibly help it. If the man and
woman are both away a child is left. The dogs can tell the place is
inhabited and refrain from a raid, which would only bring a storm about
their ears if once the alarm were raised. But should the dwelling be
empty even for a short time, the dogs at once get to know it—and they
know about the stores of meat and oil and blubber inside! Now, the
Leader of the team belonging to the establishment is there also as a
“guard,” but his argument seems to be that this obligation applies only
to outsiders. Having driven off any strange visitants who may venture
around, he has no further scruples about helping himself. Moreover, he
has a remarkable business head. He believes, in letting the others
down—for his own advantage and prestige.
As soon, then, as he decides the tupik is really empty, he gives one
short, deep note, well understood by the others dogs, signifying that
the coast is clear. Then he bounces at the tent wall, bursts through
it, and snatching the first big mouthful of meat he can get, beats a
discreet retreat, leaving the others like thoughtless children to do
the work and get themselves into the required mess. They rush in, of
course, make hay of the tent, and kick up a tremendous uproar, giving
themselves away to the whole village. It does not take long for the
natives to cope with the situation. Armed with sticks, they hurry to
the spot, and while some penetrate the tent to lay about and drive the
dogs outside, others stand ready for the culprits when they come out,
to give them such hard blows as will last them well—until next time!
Out comes number one, a lump of provender in his teeth. He gets his
blows right enough, but sticks to the meat ... only to be met, further
on by the Leader, a surprised and indignant look on his face, as who
should say “What! You at it again! Stealing, when you ought to be on
guard! And having the effrontery to try to pass Me with your plunder!
Put that meat down instantly and I’ll take charge of it! If you want
any more, go back and get it.”
There is no getting past this. The delinquent is bowled out, rolled
over, bullied until he loses his head and his booty into the bargain.
He is glad to escape alive. He breaks away at last, frantically licking
his wounds. Whereupon Leader absent-mindedly eats the meat and sits
down to await another scrap from the next offender. He calls this
keeping his end up with the mob.
On one lurid occasion of this sort, all the canine raiders had escaped
from the tent but one, a small fat puppy. He happened to be in the
place at the time and quite enjoyed entering into the spirit of the
thing—meant to do his best like the others. So he climbed into the
lamp, freshly replenished with oil, and fitted it so exactly,
lubricating himself from head to foot, that he stuck in situ to be
caught, but looking quite proud of his position and feeling altogether
grown up. He was soaked in oil and grime; oil dripped from his mouth,
and the laugh on his face plainly said, “My! This is good! Why didn’t I
think of it before?” He was summarily pulled both out of the lamp and
out of his complacency. Infantile yells outside told of early
correction being administered and a lesson in honesty enforced. After
that his mother took him in hand and licked him clean.
It is sometimes asserted that the Eskimo dog does not bark. This is a
mistake, as he certainly has a snappy bark of his own, however little
it may resemble the recognised barks of all other sorts of dogs. For
the most part he howls.
The dogs, one and all, are up to every sort of trick. Moreover, their
stomachs are for ever empty and always keen for any sort of food. They
are fed at night whilst on the trail, in order that the meal should
have time to digest and strengthen them. Incidentally, they sleep
soundly buried in the snow, and neither attempt to stray nor to break
into the hunter’s sleeping place. In the morning they are nowhere to be
seen. The white expanse remains unbroken. They are all under the snow,
and in no way inclined to rouse up and be harnessed. Nobody wastes time
looking for them. Someone takes a lamp outside the shelter and empties
the oil on the ground. Immediately black noses emerge from here and
there, tempted by the smell, and the rest is easy.
Once upon a time Nannook (the bear) the Bad Hat of the team, had a
brilliant idea. He had often considered the weighty problem of the
driving lash it seemed so impossible for his master ever to forget. The
point was, how to get rid of it. So long as that whip cracked forever
about them there was no chance of making the other dogs do his share of
the work, no opportunity to slack off or snatch a rest. The only scheme
seemed to be to eat it. Nothing loth, Nannook waited for the usual
midday halt. The hunter chopped off some frozen pieces of meat, sat
down in the lee of the sled and ate and smoked. The whip lay unheeded
on the snow behind his shoulder.
Nannook sneaked up, caught hold of the end of the lash, and steadily
began to chew. He chewed yard after yard, his stomach feeling better
with every foot of the way. He chewed up to the very stock, undetected;
and having packed away at least eighteen feet of seasoned whalehide,
crept back to the team. Presently the hunter bestirred himself for a
start. Picking up his whip—he just gazed round. It was a dog, without a
doubt; but which one? Who on earth could tell! All were innocently
dozing, every one in his place, the picture of virtuous decorum. No one
could tell. No one, therefore, could be punished. The rest of the
journey was accomplished perforce of shouting only. For once in a way
the dogs had the best of the joke.
It sometimes happens on a long trail with a heavy sled that a blizzard,
or some other untoward circumstance, may delay a traveller for a longer
or shorter time; sometimes for days. His food supply gives out and the
dogs come to an end of their rations. The team gets ever more weary and
more weak. The hunter goes on ahead, breaking the trail for them on
snowshoes; the dogs stagger along after him, often lying down and
refusing to get up. But the trouble has not been unforeseen. The master
has prepared for this sort of emergency by carefully bringing along
some particularly bad bits of refuse seal meat. The stench of them
would imbue a skunk with self-respect, in comparison. Taking one of
these, he forges ahead, calling the dogs and leaving behind him a lure
like poison gas. He drops the meat, and the Leader, picking up the
scent, with a new cock in his dispirited ears, bustles round, spurring
up the team with the information. “Come on!” he says. “Can’t you see
he’s dropped that bit? My, can’t you smell it? Hurry up, and let’s get
it!” They do get up, poor dupes; but the Leader, in virtue of his
longer trace gets there first, and doesn’t wait to argue. Over and over
again this manœuvre is repeated, both on the hunter’s part and on the
Leader’s. The rest of the team make all the effort they can to get
equal with such duplicity, and sometimes even succeed in snatching
first at the bait. Anyway, it is a fine way of getting the sled along
and taking their minds off their troubles. A trail of loathsome scraps,
each one encouraging a spurt on the part of the dogs, helps over the
distance. Often an exhausted team has been enabled to cover the last
few miles by this method, when otherwise they must have dropped.
In spite of the rigour of his life and the necessary hardness of his
owner, the Eskimo dog is not without that glorious power of faithful
canine devotion which is one of the most beautiful forms of love on
earth. The writer knows of at least two instances where a dog has
wasted away and died of grief in his master’s absence or after his
death. But such a true canine trait is very rare. For the most part,
these animals readily transfer their affections to the hand that feeds
them.
They are savage to all strangers. The team guards its master’s tent or
igloo because he is the one who provides for it. The dogs sleep in the
porch as a rule; and before entering a dwelling the visitor is well
advised to call to one of the inmates to quiet them, otherwise he will
be severely bitten. In winter, when hungry, the dogs are more dangerous
than ever. It happened, once, that two Eskimo had died, and been sewn
up in their blankets and buried beneath a cairn of huge stones in a
neighbouring valley. One of the bodies was even enclosed in a light
barrel. During the night the dogs raided the place, tore down the
stones, and ate the dead. In the summer time they forage for themselves
on the seashore, picking up small fish left by the tide, and anything
edible they can find.
The Eskimo dog has a great deal that is wolfish and dangerous in him.
The strain, indeed, is very little differentiated from the wolf.
Sometimes a dog will leave camp, go back to the wild, and join a pack
of wolves as one of themselves. Those who do this seldom return; but
when they do, puppies of the direct resulting strain are greatly
valued. It has been remarked that, whereas wolves in the Arctic seldom
attack a human being, dogs will not uncommonly do so. The extraordinary
thing about this is that hydrophobia is practically unknown. It would
be difficult to say exactly what may be the natural span of life of the
Eskimo dogs, but they seem to be at least as long lived as the larger
breeds of European dogs.
The Eskimo names his dog ‘The Lively One,’ the ‘Bear,’ the ‘North
Star,’ and in similar fashion. The animals possess much humour of their
own; one belonging to the writer, of whom he was extremely fond,
certainly enjoyed fun, and could very nearly speak!
Lest, while on the subject of these creatures too much space should be
devoted to them, this chapter cannot be concluded without a brief
description of the sleds to which their toilsome lives are vowed.
The small, light-going sled used for hunting is only about six feet in
length. The cross bars are fastened to the runners by sealskin thongs,
to ensure a certain degree of pliability in travelling over rough ice.
A pair of reindeer horns with part of the skull attached are fastened
by thongs to the back of the sled, forming a sort of erect triangle.
This serves as a rack upon which to hang coils of sealing line and
various implements, and also as a rest to lean against for anyone
sitting on the sled. The runners are shod with strips of bone sawn from
the ribs or jaw of the whale, and fastened on either by wooden pegs or
by thongs sunk into grooves to prevent them wearing through. These
runners are the object of very special care and constant daily
attention on the part of the owner. They are covered with a thick
coating of seal’s blood, for the sake of a fine surface. The craftsman
takes a mouthful of this material and squirts it upon the runners,
moulding it at the same time with his fingers. It freezes even as he
smooths it down, and with a final squirting of water takes a high, hard
glaze which ensures smooth and swift running for the sled. If seal’s
blood happens to be scarce the maker uses a mixture of moss roots and
water, which gives an almost equally good surface when applied in the
same way, and looks like nothing so much as a first-class cork lino.
The Kummotik, or long travelling sled, is double the length of the
foregoing and heavier in proportion. Otherwise its construction is the
same. It requires a team of from twelve to eighteen dogs, whereas five
are sufficient for the hunting sled. The loading of a Kummotik is a
work of art. There is a place for everything, and everything has to go,
just so, into its place. The spears and weapons are stowed in the
bottom of the sled in front, by the driver. At the far end, a piece of
skin is laid down and upon this slab upon slab of blubber for the lamp
is piled up, and the lamp set atop of the lot, bottom up, because of
the grease and dirt. Then the meat for the journey is put aboard—frozen
deer hams, and frozen seals entire, enough for the whole party until
they fetch up at the next tribe’s camping ground. The meat is, of
course, uncooked, since a minimum of raw meat gives a maximum of heat
and strength. (Hence the Eskimo prefer their rations raw when there is
work to be done. The cooked stew of an evening is a mere luxury meal.)
A skin is thrown over the heap of provisions to prevent the travellers’
clothing being soiled by it. Over it all are piled the rolled-up
sleeping blankets and the karsâte or deerskin rugs for mattresses.
Knives, axes and lines hang upon the horns behind. The driver’s seat in
front is a box containing small tools, flint and steel. The whole load
is securely lashed down to the cross bars of the sled. The man’s spear
is slipped into the lashings on one side, so as to be handy for use at
a moment’s notice. The women and children perch on top of the load, or
make their way alongside on foot, as they prefer. The dogs’ lines are
all gathered to a point (like the sticks of a fan) just in front of the
runners, when they are tied and then divided into the two short traces
which, fastened to right and left on the runners, draw the sled.
A still more ancient form of sled was in use among the Eskimo before
the advent of the whites, but the elders of the villages remember it
well and describe it to-day. In those times wood was very scarce, tools
very rude, and whales more abundant than at present. So strips of
whalebone taken from the mouth (before this valuable material came into
the markets of the world at all) were stitched together by whale or
hide thongs, until a sled could be fashioned out of them, something
like a huge, long, black shovel, very hard, durable and strong. Dogs
harnessed to this contrivance made good speed with it, even with the
driver squatting upon it. In one respect it was more serviceable than
the modern form with runners, since unlike these it did not sink in
snow or easily break through a rotten crust. It should be noted that a
full-grown whale has about a ton of this black whalebone fringe hanging
from his jaw, the longest part of it attaining six or seven feet when
the mouth is open; so that a fair sized sled could easily be made out
of such a great supply.
The struggle for existence in the Arctic has taught the Eskimo to
utilise in the most ingenious ways resources at their disposal so
limited that the marvel is so self-sufficing, so healthy, hearty and
happy a civilisation, of its kind, could ever have been evolved.
Where these tribes have come so much in contact with other peoples, and
even with well-meaning white enterprise on their behalf, that they have
attempted to substitute for their old ways a method and mode of living
indigenous neither to the climate nor to their own physique, they have
invariably degenerated. The Eskimo of Labrador and Alaska have largely
abandoned the snow house for the log shack or sod hut, and have in
consequence been decimated by tuberculosis. Everywhere, contact with
“civilisation” has tended so to divorce these children of the North
from their natural environment as to initiate their wholesale decline.
It is only now, in “the last North of all”—in Baffin Land, Boothia
Island, Victoria Land, and the rest—that the Eskimo retain their old
ways and their old vigour. Their life and their type everywhere else
has become mongrel and nondescript. While there can never, of course,
be any question in believing and thinking man’s mind about the
inestimable boon of Christianity and educating these people along the
lines suggested by a sympathetic study of them on the spot, it seems to
be very inadvisable to interfere with them, to “civilise” them too much
after the unsuitable European model, to revolutionise the natural and
suitable scheme of life they have so bravely and so ingeniously worked
out for themselves during the uncivilised centuries of their existence
in the bleakest and most inhospitable regions of the earth.