I
The sneakiness started way before the dogs. Back sometime in the 50’s an island was created near the North Pole by the Americans using loads of ice, dirt, chunks of recycled concrete. Disguised as an oil rig to some, an ice floe to others. Nestled inside: a nuclear device titled The Biggie. Who would take the time to look into the frozen corner of glaciers? Maybe a few naturalists, a biologist here and there might explore, but back then there were no Athabasca cultural attachés or anthropologists interested in jotting down any notes about cold local culture. It was easy to dissuade people from the North Pole, put a cargo ship in the way, rough up some waves with an underwater wave-rougher-upper and who can travel up that passage? Go up the other one, it’s prettier.
The Biggie was to have all points directed at large and evil Russia. Handpicked men worked the area, hired on a quiet basis of experience and non-messy family status: no wife, no children, no clingy girlfriends, no beloved pets. These men were not chosen from Ivy League colleges, or job fairs, but given a business card after they lost it all at the races, or made the mistake of allowing a drink bought for them by the only other guy bellied-up to the bar on a rainy afternoon. Idealism and conscience were not the traits sought for these positions, just men with a little skill and nothing else to do.
After the man did his thing for the project, be it plumb or electric, grunt or engineer, they were trained to do other tasks to keep them on the island as long as possible. If a man wanted to leave — which did happen on occasion even though the pay was extraordinary — there was pressure to stay, but pressure not overcooked to cause suspicion. These dropouts would hop on the next cargo drop with an escort who was to make sure they got paid and settled. However, they never quite made it. Somewhere between the island and the port, the man would have a case of gloominess and jump, a heart attack, or a dehydrating bout of terminal seasickness.
If there was a question asked by a friend or cousin, the man’s relation would be told that he skipped over to Montana to work on a ranch, or signed on to a salmon boat somewhere, who knows where that guy went? He was itchin’ to go, didn’t stay long.
The island had three parts: the oil rig, the Coast Guard unit and The Biggie. Both the oil rig and Coast Guard station were ruses. Men in both places were told to keep quiet about each other, so when black trucks went through, the oil rig folks said, ooh look at the mysterious Coast Guard delivery, and the coast guard said, yes, more stuff for the rig. The Coast Guard was setup with a minimal station, one with communications that perpetually broke down, and uncomfortable living conditions. That rig never did get finished as it was always in various stages of creation, with many disadvantageous and suspicious setbacks.
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II
The island was white, blue, gray, black, the occasional silver, and no other color.
The men in all places of the island were insanely lonesome as there were no women within walking, driving, flying, boating distance. None.
A high-up noted the increasing discontent and ordered dogs, furry dogs, malamute-types that could bear the implausibly low temperatures.
Four dogs were delivered at 5am on a Sunday along with a shipment of titanium. The reception for the animals was unlike any other, perhaps bigger than any wedding and more cheerful than any birth. After three years of no women and no visitors, the balls, the shouts, the running, the goofing around in fantastic proportions sent reverberations down the Bering Straight away from the north pole, across Alaska, through Russia and into the entire northern hemisphere. Almost everyone on earth woke thinking a similar thought — this feels like an unusually good day. All because of the four dog delivery.
Eventually, underneath it all, The Biggie was finally in perfect readiness aimed at all the dastardly parts of Russia.
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III
None of the dogs were fixed — a detail overlooked- and babies soon bulged. The men gathered in vigils where they stroked the birthing mothers, egged them on, held the pups. Waiting lists for newborns were developed as were bribes, payments and fights. Finally, a lottery settled the debate.
Fourteen adult dogs and six pups inhabited Ice Island at the time of the explosion. Most men died immediately, four survived the day, three lived long enough to find each other, and one called in a distress call which was answered with help promised and promptly ignored. Files sealed and destroyed. No such thing as Ice Island.
Three of the puppies, who were playing at the edge of the ice with a seal pup, lived through the day, the week, the months, by eating the meat left on the island by their relatives and friends. One passed by choking on a bone. The two left became seven, became twenty-two, became sixty-three. The dogs ate passing birds, seals, fish, and in the cold dark of winter, each other, until they were back down to just two, a male and a female.
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IV
Vidor, a grizzled sort repairing ropes in the dark under a dim lantern, heard the barks first. The men easily tempted the emaciated dogs off an odd piece of rig-and-metal-strewn ice, with crumbs of spicy meat and hauled them aboard, brushed their coats. With silver eyes, the dogs watched the men who never seemed to sleep. Vidor kept the pregnant female and traded the male to an American fisherman — one of several transactions between two silent men too dangerous to discuss — for one American dollar. Vidor hid the money and his knowledge underneath his shirt where they stuck to his chest like fishskin.