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Tai Mir

Stories of My Sled Dogs

To Polina M.

The text is published in the author’s edition.

Author: Tai Mir (Dmitry Murzin)

Illustrator: Tatyana Kataeva, Translated by Yulia Aminova

© D. G. Murzin, 2025

6+ – Information product rating according to Federal Law of the Russian Federation No. 436-FZ of December 29, 2010

Annotation

An adventurous tale inspired by true events.

Meet Gypsy, Irtysh, and Cherke – real sled dogs who once crossed the endless Arctic together. Their stories are a blend of magic and reality: sometimes touching, sometimes thrilling, but always full of wonder.

Through snowstorms and polar nights, they reveal the timeless bond between humans and dogs – a bond of friendship, loyalty, and courage that has lasted for thousands of years.

Enriched with original illustrations, Stories of My Sled Dogs is a book for children, teenagers, and adults alike – for everyone who has ever loved a dog or dreamed of distant northern lands.

Story One: Gypsy

"A gypsy with cards, a long road ahead…"

—from a song

The northern wind swept up the dry snow dust, sending it spinning in tiny whirls near the ground before lifting it into the sky. Within fifteen minutes, the white sky and the equally white tundra blended into an impenetrable milky haze.

Snow lashed against the eyes, froze in crusty layers on fur, and melted into tiny droplets on the musher’s protective goggles. Gypsy could no longer see the musher’s face. She could barely hear his voice, and when she turned her head, she saw only a dark blur where the sled had once been. The dogs behind her looked the same – just dark shadows. But Gypsy did not need to see them. She knew each one by their scent.

For over two hours, they had been trying to catch up with the sled team that had gone ahead. The group had just one sled team. To humans, it was just another sled team. But to Gypsy, it was a whole "troop" of ten familiar dogs. Each had its own habits, character, and place in the pack.

The morning made a good start. It was not windy, and the sun was faintly visible somewhere above the eastern mountains. It was decided that one group would travel light and prepare lunch, while the other one would finish packing up the camp and then catch up with the first group.

But a ground blizzard ruined their plans. At first, the trail was easy to see and smelled strong, but soon, the side wind erased even the scent.

The man was worried. He kept stopping the dogs, straying a dozen steps to the side, feeling for tracks with his boots. When he found them, he would grab Gypsy by the collar and pull her forward.

They moved like that for a while, until they reached the swamp where the wind had scoured the snow away completely – and the trail disappeared for good.

That was when the man lost his temper. "Idiots! Slackers! Good-for-nothing!" he shouted, striking their frozen muzzles with his thick mittens and yanking the sled left and right. But the dogs refused to move. They flattened their ears, cringing to the ground and shying away, unsure of where to go.

Finally, the man gave up. He sat down on the snow behind the sled.

A large tent was left in the first sled. He had a small tent made of thin fabric, which had been packed last. In this wind, setting up was impossible. He could only wrap himself up and wait for the storm to ease. And so he did.

The dogs immediately began pacing in circles, stamping down small hollows in the snow and lying down with their backs to the wind. They tucked their noses into the warmth of their bellies, and soon, the snow began to cover them, turning the team into a line of small snowdrifts.

Gypsy dozed off. Like all sled dogs, she took every moment to rest when the opportunity came.

Strictly speaking, Gypsy was not a sled dog. She was just a reindeer herding Laika from the Yamal Peninsula. Her long, thin hair was black and brown, with a thick underlayer of fur. She had short legs, a compact body – nothing seemed suited for pulling a sled.

Gypsy was born in a kennel in Karelia. Her parents had been gifted to a traveler who set off alone across the Arctic. That happened far from Karelia, on the shore of the Frozen Ocean. The traveler needed help, and he was given the dogs. No one leaves a man in trouble in the tundra.

Gypsy had only heard about the tundra in stories from her parents. "The tundra is the best place in the world!" her mother used to say. "No trees, but there are mountains, the sea, and reindeer!"

Of course, dogs do not tell stories the way humans do. The images simply appeared in Gypsy’s mind, as if passed down through the memories of her ancestors – those who had lived alongside humans for thousands of years, helping them herd reindeer in the endless tundra.

When Gypsy was first harnessed into a sled team and training began, she quickly figured out what was expected of her.

"Ha!" meant "left." "Gee!" meant "right." "A-le!" meant "forward." "Br-r!" meant "stop."

It took time, but everything could be learned. Light-footed, quick, and sharp-eyed, Gypsy stood out among her brothers and sisters. At training sessions, she was the top.

Late in autumn, she was taken from Karelia and settled into the yard of a large village house, alongside other sled dogs. Training continued, as the team was being prepared for an Arctic expedition.

On weekends, the guests came over. The dogs would pull children through the snow forest, to the delight of both kids and parents.

Gypsy became friends with a little girl. The girl was the granddaughter of the house owners. She loved taking Gypsy for a walk and often brought her treats.

"You are my best friend," the girl would whisper into Gypsy’s fluffy ear. "What do you think I should ask grandma for: a cake or some ice cream? I think ice cream is tastier."

Gypsy always agreed. That was the foundation of their friendship.

By spring, Gypsy had earned her place at the front of the sled team, as its leader. The lead pair of dogs pulled the least weight but bore the greatest responsibility. The leader had to listen, understand the musher’s commands, and guide the others. Gypsy was smart; she could handle it.

Now, she was in the Arctic. When the dogs were unloaded onto the snow near Lake Taymyr, Gypsy felt like she had come home. Around her stretched the vast tundra she had dreamed of as a puppy, lying in a dark kennel under her mother’s warm belly. On the first day, the dazzling white snow made her squint against the brightness.

But now, the storm raged over the northern mountains, swirling around the expedition. Nothing could be seen beyond a few meters. The mountains were called Byrranga. No one had ever lived here – too cold, too empty.

The man, sitting behind the sled, began to doze off. Under the cover of the cloak he had draped over himself, it was dark. The monotonous sound of the snowstorm almost lulled him to sleep. His legs, which had started to freeze, now felt warm.

Then, strange images flickered in his mind. A large, shaggy musk ox wandered by. People in fur clothing followed it, carrying bows and arrows. Suddenly, a tiny northern lemming leapt into view. It squeaked, shot upwards, plummeted down, and vanished. The visions were strange, as if he was seeing everything from below, looking up. Only the lemming was too big, like a guinea pig. Then, a shaggy dog appeared. She looked like Gypsy. She began barking, urging him: "Get up! Follow me!" And, as it happens in dreams, the man was not surprised that he understood her.

At the same time, Gypsy dreamed of the tundra of spring. She was dreaming of a reindeer herders’ camp with their chums, reindeer, and funny, fur-clad children. From the south, the geese were migrating north, and the people were preparing for the hunt. Gypsy was lying pressed against the blank wall of the chum, soaking up the sun. A plump, glossy lemming dashed out right in front of her. In an instant, Gypsy snatched it up in her teeth, flipped it into the air, and the lemming was gone.

Summer was coming – the season of plenty in the tundra. Suddenly, she saw her mother. Her mother looked worried about something.

Gypsy did not want to move from her sun-warmed spot. But she forced herself up, stretched toward her mother, and woke up. Still, an uneasy feeling would not leave her. Gypsy reluctantly pushed her head out of the snowbank and shook off the clumps of snow.

The blizzard was not over, but it was growing tired. It got colder. At the edges of the valley, the faint silhouettes of mountains began to emerge. Gypsy looked around, sniffed the snow-laden air, and let out a hoarse bark.

From another snowdrift, black-and-white Kass poked out his head and answered. Then, near the sled, Cherke, Bucks, and Romka rose to their feet. One dog began to bark, then another – and soon the whole team joined in, their barking melting into a howling chorus. Some dogs were standing with their heads thrown back, howling at the pale sky. Others did not bother getting up; they simply stuck their muzzles out of the snow. They were howling in twelve voices, together, just as thousands of generations of northern dogs had done before them…