This was supposed to be for this week's ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15minuteficlets exercise.
Jun. 15th, 2004 02:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
camwynI ran a lot over time-wise, but that was partly due to interruptions. It's under a thousand words, though. I went back and did another Sergeant Preston story, pre-League but post-radio series.
This week's word was replacement.
A normal husky's working lifespan is about eight or nine years. Pups are too young to pull, and a dog of twelve or fourteen's too sore in the joints to work for much longer. A man who cares for his dogs' welfare will generally retire his animals by the time they're ten years old, and give them their last few years to doze by the fire and play in the snow if they like.
There are, of course, exceptions. A truly outstanding dog will grow up fast and live a long time, and a lucky man will find that his dog isn't happy without something to do every day.
Yukon King was truly outstanding. At ten years old, he showed not the slightest sign of slowing down. Had he enough knowledge of human words, he would've bitten any man who tried to tell him he was getting old and ought to be taken out of the traces. Any man but one- his master, Sergeant Preston, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. All he asked of him was the chance to serve faithfully, day in and day out, and to be by his side as closely as possible until the end of his days.
That was the thing, though. King, like any other dog, was mortal. The end of his days would come eventually, and then where would the Sergeant be? Oh, there were plenty of dogs at the Mountie barracks who'd serve well enough as the lead on his team, but none like King. So far as Sergeant Preston was concerned, no dog anywhere in the north-country could compare. Besides, he wanted his lead dog to be his, not the property of the Mounted to dispose of as necessary. That was why, one fine day when King was coming up on ten years old, the Sergeant had a few words with a trader named Pierre Robichaux- and brought King along with him. Robichaux had a husky, a black-and-white female as fine as any man might want- and she liked King quite a bit. It was an easy arrangement to make.
A few months later, when the air wasn't so much turning warm as letting go of the bitter, bone-biting cold, Sergeant Preston and King came around again. "Ah, mon ami, they are still too young," said Robichaux as he regretfully sucked wind through his teeth.
"That's all right, Pierre," the Sergeant told him. "I'm just here to look at them. I'll be coming back in another month or so."
Robichaux nodded, and led the two of them to the little pen behind his cabin. Jolie, his husky, wagged her tail but stayed where she was. Small wonder; there were three fuzzy grey pups bounding around the pen, pouncing each other enthusiastically at the slightest opportunity. A fourth remained curled up at its mother's side. Robichaux laughed. "That one," he said, nodding at the placid pup, "she is Jolie's favourite- a nice, calm girl, hein? She will be strong like her brothers and sisters, I think, but maybe too calm for you. . ."
"Probably," Sergeant Preston agreed, eyes on the two pups who were ferociously rolling across the pen. "They've already got their personalities by this age, and I need a more independent dog to take the lead. . . Say, Pierre?"
"Oui?"
"Didn't you say there were five pups in this litter? I only count four."
Robichaux nodded. "Five pups, oui."
"So where's the fifth? Is he all right?"
"Yes, but he's a little small." That was another voice- a woman's voice. The Sergeant turned to face it.
The speaker was a fair-haired woman, who'd just emerged from the cabin. Her fair hair was caught up in a bun at the back of her head, loose strands having fallen out here and there. She wore plain, practical clothes, stained and patched here and there, as if they'd been handed down through generations of hard workers. In the crook of one arm she carried a sleepy, blue-eyed puppy. "I'm afraid he's really the runt of the litter. He's never been able to fight his siblings properly for a chance at mealtime, so I've been helping Pierre strengthen him up- if you don't mind, Sergeant," she added with a smile.
He'd seen her before. Fred Delaney and his young daughter had come to Dawson in the wake of a terrible fire years ago. Fred had seized his chance and built a new hotel in town before the Palace's owner could even count his losses, and they'd been here ever since. She'd hardly been more than a girl at the time, Preston knew, but it looked as if she'd grown up- and grown up awfully well, at that…
He pulled his hat off immediately. "Not at all, Miss Delaney."
She laughed; the puppy squirmed in her grip. "Please, Sergeant," she said as she set him down at her feet, "call me Louise."
"All right- if you say so."
"I do say so." She patted the puppy's head, and he toddled over to nose at his mother's belly. As she straightened up, she tucked some of her loose hair behind one ear. "Are you back in Dawson for very long this time?"
"Afraid not," Preston answered. Behind him King had padded over to one of the other puppies, and was sniffing at him with great curiosity. The puppy, a darker grey than his father, yipped once and batted at the older dog's muzzle. "I'm passing through on my way to Fort Munn- won't be here longer than a day or two, depending on the weather."
"I see." Her eyes flicked to the pups for a moment, then back up again. "Looking for King's replacement, I suppose?"
"Well- not immediately, but. . ." King let out a yelp of surprise as the puppy pounced at him. Louise laughed; Preston couldn't help but smile again. "Yes. Yes, I think I may have found one."
This week's word was replacement.
A normal husky's working lifespan is about eight or nine years. Pups are too young to pull, and a dog of twelve or fourteen's too sore in the joints to work for much longer. A man who cares for his dogs' welfare will generally retire his animals by the time they're ten years old, and give them their last few years to doze by the fire and play in the snow if they like.
There are, of course, exceptions. A truly outstanding dog will grow up fast and live a long time, and a lucky man will find that his dog isn't happy without something to do every day.
Yukon King was truly outstanding. At ten years old, he showed not the slightest sign of slowing down. Had he enough knowledge of human words, he would've bitten any man who tried to tell him he was getting old and ought to be taken out of the traces. Any man but one- his master, Sergeant Preston, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. All he asked of him was the chance to serve faithfully, day in and day out, and to be by his side as closely as possible until the end of his days.
That was the thing, though. King, like any other dog, was mortal. The end of his days would come eventually, and then where would the Sergeant be? Oh, there were plenty of dogs at the Mountie barracks who'd serve well enough as the lead on his team, but none like King. So far as Sergeant Preston was concerned, no dog anywhere in the north-country could compare. Besides, he wanted his lead dog to be his, not the property of the Mounted to dispose of as necessary. That was why, one fine day when King was coming up on ten years old, the Sergeant had a few words with a trader named Pierre Robichaux- and brought King along with him. Robichaux had a husky, a black-and-white female as fine as any man might want- and she liked King quite a bit. It was an easy arrangement to make.
A few months later, when the air wasn't so much turning warm as letting go of the bitter, bone-biting cold, Sergeant Preston and King came around again. "Ah, mon ami, they are still too young," said Robichaux as he regretfully sucked wind through his teeth.
"That's all right, Pierre," the Sergeant told him. "I'm just here to look at them. I'll be coming back in another month or so."
Robichaux nodded, and led the two of them to the little pen behind his cabin. Jolie, his husky, wagged her tail but stayed where she was. Small wonder; there were three fuzzy grey pups bounding around the pen, pouncing each other enthusiastically at the slightest opportunity. A fourth remained curled up at its mother's side. Robichaux laughed. "That one," he said, nodding at the placid pup, "she is Jolie's favourite- a nice, calm girl, hein? She will be strong like her brothers and sisters, I think, but maybe too calm for you. . ."
"Probably," Sergeant Preston agreed, eyes on the two pups who were ferociously rolling across the pen. "They've already got their personalities by this age, and I need a more independent dog to take the lead. . . Say, Pierre?"
"Oui?"
"Didn't you say there were five pups in this litter? I only count four."
Robichaux nodded. "Five pups, oui."
"So where's the fifth? Is he all right?"
"Yes, but he's a little small." That was another voice- a woman's voice. The Sergeant turned to face it.
The speaker was a fair-haired woman, who'd just emerged from the cabin. Her fair hair was caught up in a bun at the back of her head, loose strands having fallen out here and there. She wore plain, practical clothes, stained and patched here and there, as if they'd been handed down through generations of hard workers. In the crook of one arm she carried a sleepy, blue-eyed puppy. "I'm afraid he's really the runt of the litter. He's never been able to fight his siblings properly for a chance at mealtime, so I've been helping Pierre strengthen him up- if you don't mind, Sergeant," she added with a smile.
He'd seen her before. Fred Delaney and his young daughter had come to Dawson in the wake of a terrible fire years ago. Fred had seized his chance and built a new hotel in town before the Palace's owner could even count his losses, and they'd been here ever since. She'd hardly been more than a girl at the time, Preston knew, but it looked as if she'd grown up- and grown up awfully well, at that…
He pulled his hat off immediately. "Not at all, Miss Delaney."
She laughed; the puppy squirmed in her grip. "Please, Sergeant," she said as she set him down at her feet, "call me Louise."
"All right- if you say so."
"I do say so." She patted the puppy's head, and he toddled over to nose at his mother's belly. As she straightened up, she tucked some of her loose hair behind one ear. "Are you back in Dawson for very long this time?"
"Afraid not," Preston answered. Behind him King had padded over to one of the other puppies, and was sniffing at him with great curiosity. The puppy, a darker grey than his father, yipped once and batted at the older dog's muzzle. "I'm passing through on my way to Fort Munn- won't be here longer than a day or two, depending on the weather."
"I see." Her eyes flicked to the pups for a moment, then back up again. "Looking for King's replacement, I suppose?"
"Well- not immediately, but. . ." King let out a yelp of surprise as the puppy pounced at him. Louise laughed; Preston couldn't help but smile again. "Yes. Yes, I think I may have found one."
