A Wolf in the Kitchen

By J. T. Bryde

A Wolf in the Kitchen is the prequel to Jim’s first book,

SLED DOG GUN: AVIEMORE DREAMING.

In 1987 Jim and Cherry bought their very first Siberian Husky… Hustler.

On showing him to people for the first time, they were asked the inevitable question: “Is that a baby wolf?”

A year later in the Summer of 1988 a small advert in a local paper changed their lives forever. They discovered the sport of “dog sledding.”

Over the next 15 years, more dogs were bought until they had eleven.

What follows is the story of these years and is both highly amusing, and often downright funny.

After much perseverance, and some frustration, Jim transforms these dogs into one of the fastest teams in Great Britain.

With it came recognition that he never imagined, and he and his team found fame on national radio and TV and played a part in a major movie film.

A lovely easy read that is suitable for all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035801374

J. T. Bryde

J. T. Bryde was born in the dockside town of Birkenhead Merseyside. At 18, he joined the Royal Navy. Upon leaving, he travelled and worked in Europe, America, Canada and Australia. Finally, the author retrained as a landscape gardener, highlighted by managing landscaping of Adventure Land Disney Land Paris. Jim met Cherry in 1984 and bought his first husky, Hustler, in 1987. This changed his life and began his lifetime passion for dog sledding. The author retired to France in 2012 where he lives with Cherry, his six remaining huskies, four cats and Wizzy, the border terrier.

Book preview

A Wolf in the Kitchen

J. T. Bryde

Austin Macauley Publishers

A Wolf in the Kitchen

About the Author

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Introduction

Chapter 1: The Green, Green Grass of Birkenhead

Chapter 2: Beginnings

Chapter 3: Hustler

Chapter 4: Living with a Siberian Puppy

Chapter 5: New Dawn

Chapter 6: Training Starts

Chapter 7: Wales. Gee/Haw Land

Chapter 8: The Waiting Game

Chapter 9: Wolf in the Kitchen

Chapter 10: Brookside Revisited

Chapter 11: Xmas Comes Early

Chapter 12: Disneyland

Chapter 13: Puppyland

Chapter14: Au Revoir

Chapter 15: Hello-Goodbye

Chapter 16: Training Begins

Chapter 17: I Hear You Knocking

Chapter 18: Tupilak’s and Aviemore

Chapter 19: Wolves in the Kitchen

Chapter 20: They Say Things Happen in Threes!

Chapter 21: Disaster

Chapter 22: New Dawn: Joker

Chapter 23: Winter

Chapter 24: Glorious Goodwood/Beautiful Berlin

Chapter 25: Yet Another Dog

Chapter 26: The Joys of Running Dogs

Chapter 27: Changing of the Guards

Chapter 28: On the Road Again

Chapter 29: The Northern Lights

Chapter 30: Six of the Best

Chapter 31: Fame

Chapter 32: Coming Home

Verified Amazon Reviews for Sled Dog Gun Aviemore Dreaming

About the Author

J. T. Bryde was born in the dockside town of Birkenhead Merseyside. At 18, he joined the Royal Navy. Upon leaving, he travelled and worked in Europe, America, Canada and Australia. Finally, the author retrained as a landscape gardener, highlighted by managing landscaping of Adventure Land Disney Land Paris.

Jim met Cherry in 1984 and bought his first husky, Hustler, in 1987. This changed his life and began his lifetime passion for dog sledding. The author retired to France in 2012 where he lives with Cherry, his six remaining huskies, four cats and Wizzy, the border terrier.

Copyright Information ©

J. T. Bryde 2023

The right of J. T. Bryde to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035801367 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035801374 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Firstly, for Cherry Burton, my partner in crime for 40 years, without whom none of this would have been possible.

Secondly, two musher mates for providing me with the two stunning photos that adorn the front and back covers of Wolf. Rebecca Becky Cunningham, front cover, and Lisa Murray, back cover.

These were both taken same day near Nuremburg, during the running of the WSA World Sled Dog Championships in 2017.

Whereas Hustler was my very first Husky, Django was the last Husky bred for my own.

A Wolf in the Kitchen was actually written in 2003 and finished on 22 December that year. The date is indelibly printed in my mind, the last chapter explains why. I spent all of 2021 typing up my handwritten manuscript (during the Covid shutdowns) after repeated requests from friends/readers to do a follow-up to Sled Dog Gun—Aviemore Dreaming.

Wolf ends where Gun begins.

Other books by J.T. Bryde Sled Dog Gun—Aviemore Dreaming.

Introduction

I bought my first Siberian Husky back in July 1987, a breed that, at that point, was like Fairy dust, very rare. Not so nowadays, when they are so overbred they have the distinction of being the second most popular dog in the rescue pounds, after the, also unfortunate, Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

As I finish writing this, it is January 2022 and I have one 16-year-old female Husky to keep me company, Leahrno’s Reef.

In between those 35 years, I have owned a total of 16 Siberians, bred 5 litters, kept 6 of those pups and along the way won GB’s biggest race, Aviemore. I have seen 6 of my line become the very first British Purebred World Sled dog champions, was involved in making a major film (Tomb Raider), won my Blue Peter Badge, opened up Children in Need at Basingstoke ice rink, and saw my team appear in the tv series—It shouldn’t happen to a Wildlife TV Presenter with Chris Packham.

What follows is as true an account of those years that I can recall, with the odd embellishment to help the story along.

Jim Bryde.

Despite what you see in films, i.e. Huskies running on pristine snow, this is the reality in the UK. We mainly run on gravel trails, often in the rain and with no mudguards, the musher gets the full run-off of mud from the wheels and the dogs—welcome to mushing British Style.

In memory of Leahrno’s Reef, my final Husky

Leahrno's Reef (Tupliak's Joker x Kiriak's Blue Angel)

31/1/2006 -14/4/2023

Chapter 1

The Green, Green Grass of Birkenhead

I was born rather a long time ago in the rampant tundra town of the North West of England, Birkenhead. In reality, it was a town dominated by shipbuilding and I was living within a stone’s throw of Cammel Laird, builders of, amongst many, The Ark Royal in 1950.

So not the most apt place you’d think to begin a period that would eventually come to dominate almost half my life—dog sledding.

Having moved to Malta with my family at the age of 5, for 2 years, we returned in late 1959 when my father surprised me with my very first dog, a mongrel called Sandy.

But—the winter of 63 moulded my future in a way I could not have dreamed of. 1963 is notorious in the annals of history for one thing, the biggest freeze-up this country has ever known. For me, and the rest of my mates, it was the best time of our lives.

We lived right next to a huge park—which, luckily for us, was not fenced off as all the railings had been cut down and removed to make weapons, etc., during WW2. It was also built on a slope. Not great for playing football, but in the winter of 63 it came into its own—we had our very own toboggan slope—and it was long—about 600mts long. It also looked out towards Liverpool and The Iconic Liver Birds and the River Mersey. Not quite what you’d expect when you went sledding. Victoria Park has a lot to answer for.

The snow that winter fell and fell, became compacted and eventually turned into what I now know as a piste.

We kids dominated the slope, making and smashing, as fast as we could make them, rather rudimentary sleds. Anything would do and often did. Baking trays and bits of Formica often do better down the slopes than some of the sleds the richer kids had.

The one problem was the start of the slope was at the far end of the park where we lived. Now, all of us kids had dogs and during the summer months, we could be found on our bikes in Storeton woods, where we used the bikes to ride the trails and hills and had customised them by fixing moped suspension forks to make life easier. We often used to tie our dogs to the bikes when we were tired and get a tow. This is now a sport called Bike joring.

Anyhow, remembering this episode, one of our gang had the bright idea of using our dogs to drag us over to the slopes on our homemade sleds. We loved it and so apparently did our new best mates, our dogs. We had a great time.

Little did I know that over 25 years later the skills I learned in that dockland town would come back to visit me in spades—I became a Musher.

Chapter 2

Beginnings

When I was a kid, the first dog I ever owned was a little brown pointy eared mongrel that I called Sandy (very original of me there). Looking back at pictures of him, he’s not that far removed from the most famous of all sled dogs, Leonard Seppala’s lead dog Togo.

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Back in 1925, Nome in Alaska was under the threat of diphtheria and with no serum available to counter the disease; it threatened to become a full-blown epidemic. With the Bering Sea frozen, Nome was isolated and the only way to get the lifesaving serum to Nome was by dog sled. This was achieved by a relay of 20 teams and the greatest mileage carried out was by Leonard Seppala and his team led by Togo. The Race to Nome by Kenneth A Ungermann tells the full story of this epic journey.

Sandy used to follow me everywhere, wait outside my school for me to come out and greet him and, generally, I never went anywhere without him. The day he was put to sleep was a terribly sad day for me. He was only 11 years of age.

To cheer me up, three of my mates, Mervyn and two brothers, Kenny and Dave decided I needed picking up and we decided on a visit to Chester Zoo. I didn’t really want to go but was persuaded. I can remember the exact day as well. England was playing Brazil in the 1970 World cup Semi-Final (We lost 1-0). This was way before Sky came onto the scene so no big deal really, you had to listen to the match on a radio, and anyhow it was a baking hot day—so off we went.

Now Birkenhead is about 15 miles from the Zoo and even with us all clubbing together we only had the money for a one-way trip on the Crossville bus. No money even to get in. But that was not going to be much of a problem. The previous year we’d visited the Zoo and found that, if you went around the back, you could get in by climbing over the fence. Once over you found yourself next to a big enclosure with little prairie dogs and a few big antelope. So it not really being a very popular area, we were able to make our way to the main park without attracting too much attention.

Chester Zoo at this time had a lot of water separating the public from the animals. And these little canals were teaming with Roach and Rudd. It was a very simple exercise to catch them using a bit of gut and a hook and some bread and soon we had about 20 fresh, gleaming fat fish. Now came the really interesting bit. We were going to feed the animals. We’d decided to become Zoo keepers for the day.

Off we went to the sea lion enclosure and started lobbing in the live fish. The seals were a bit curious at first as we obviously didn’t look like the regular keepers but soon warmed to the task of chasing live instead of the normal dead fish. They were having a great time, so were we, until we spotted what looked like trouble on the horizon.

The arrival on the scene of the real keepers with the seals’ proper organised meal—buckets of dead fish. We didn’t wait around to give an explanation, so scarpered quickly in different directions. Well, me, Kenny and Merv went one way, Dave in an entirely different direction. Soon we realised nobody was after us and we then became proper tourists and did what everybody else was doing—look at the animals.

After about an hour we finally caught up with Dave and what a tale he had to tell us. He said that whilst looking around he’d come across a cage housing a Wolf. Now none of us had ever seen a Wolf before, Television only had 3 channels then and a great absence of wildlife programs. He told us that he still had some fish and had hand-fed the Wolf. We didn’t believe a word he said, but to reinforce his claim he told us the Wolf was very friendly and the keeper used to take it home with him at night having a room on the Zoo compound.

Yes right Dave, nice story, pull the other one, Kenny said.

Honest—it’s true.

I should point out that Dave was about 14, the rest of us 17 and we all consistently made up wild stories, so we assumed this was just another.

OK then show us.

Dave then took us to where he’d seen the Wolf, but before we got a real good look at this animal, we heard shouting and the approach of what looked like authority.

Time to make a swift exit.

Over the fence in record time and a long walk back to Birkenhead.

But the small glimpse I did get reminded me so much of Sandy that from that time on I vowed someday to get my own Wolf.

Years later I saw some pictures of Siberian Huskies in Great Britain.

My wish had come true—I could now own a dog that to me was as near as I would ever get to the real thing.

Chapter 3

Hustler

March 1987 Fawley, Hampshire.

There’s nobody in, you sure she said she’d be at home?

That’s what she said on the phone last night, Cherry replied.

Look, hang on here and I’ll nip round the back and see if she’s there. Now you may ask why we didn’t just phone her on the mobile—easy—this was 1987 and they hadn’t yet been invented.

So, leaving Cherry at the front door I walked to the side of the house and hoisted myself up the 6-foot wooden fence to see if the owner was around.

Jenny, you there Jenny?

And then the scene that appeared before my eyes which literally changed my life. Trooping out of a little kennel came 6 stunning black and white puppies. Not just any old puppies though, Siberian Husky puppies.

For the next few seconds, I was absolutely speechless, a rarity for me. I’d never seen anything so fabulous in my whole life. Six gorgeous puppies (about 6 weeks old) were just staring at me. Not a sound came out of them—just 12 pairs of intense black eyes looking at me. (I should point out at this point—the vast majority of Sibes have dark eyes—it’s very rare to get the picture-postcard blue-eyed version that most people assume is the norm.)

Out came mum and then about another 15 Sibes also appeared from their own sleeping quarters. And they were all staring at me—and not a sound. A very unnerving experience.

Recovering from my stupor, I shouted out, Cherry, quick, you’ve got to see this. It’s amazing. Bad mistake.

I was now to find out why Jenny Manley, the owner had named her place Howling Dog Kennels. All the dogs belted out a very mournful howl. Lasted about 20 seconds then stopped. All of them at once. You’d swear that Mantovani was conducting them—it was so precise.

Over the years, this phenomenon has happened many times with my own pack. All start howling at once and then all stop at the same time. How do they do it—no idea—but once you see it in real life you just do what I’ve always done—stand and admire the sound show. (Cherry was asked once how she got them all to stop at the same time—she just said, quite seriously, Oh, it’s training.)

What the hell was that noise? Cherry who was now beside me, but blocked off from seeing the dogs by the fence.

Look, let me give you a bunk up and see for yourself.

And Cherry, to my obvious relief, once she saw the scene was smitten for life like me. Our lives had changed forever.

Driving the 70-odd miles back to our home in West Sussex seemed to take years. We needed to get to a phone and call Jenny. Once we reached our place, I slammed on the brakes, rammed the front door key into the lock, opened the door and immediately phoned her. She never answered!

I just couldn’t believe this, no answer. So for the next year (OK, half an hour) I was like a cat on a hot tin roof (A Paul Newman film—relevant later) as I continually re-phoned and kept getting no answer. Where the f—are you, Jenny?

Finally.

Hi, Jenny here.

Jenny, its Jim Bryde, hi, where the f—k have you been, you batty old woman?

Not really—Hi Jenny, its Jim Bryde. We came down to see you as arranged but you weren’t at home.

Sorry, had to take one of the dogs to the vets, bit of a tummy problem, anyhow, I’m here now.

Look, I had a gander over your fence and saw the pups and I love them. Which one can I have and when can I collect him?

Whoa, slow down—they are all taken—you can’t have one of those—but I have another litter due in June—would you like one of those?

I should have come out with one of those snappy replies to this—you know the ones. Does the sun rise every morning? Is the Pope Catholic blah blah blah! Instead, she got a Yes blasted down the phone at a decibel level that would have done credit to Concorde.

OK then—I’ll put you down for a male and I’ll give you a call when they are born.

Believe me, the next couple of months were the longest of my life. I have always loved Summer, confirmed beach bum, but here I was wishing away what was a very hot May and June and getting more and more anxious by the day.

At this point in Britain (as I said), Siberian Huskies were very rare. I’d looked up breeders via the Kennel Club and there were only about 4 accredited breeders on their list—and the first two I phoned were not helpful—and that’s putting it mildly.

Sorry, we don’t have any pups available, may have in a couple of years, give us a call then—end of the conversation.

Years later, I met the two owners in question, in fact raced against them both and they were still as abrupt with new prospective owners then. You practically had to have a letter from God (or at least a couple of recommendations from other people that they knew to even get a viewing of their pups). In a way, they did me a favour, as it forced me to look elsewhere, which in later years I did and I never looked back.

27 June 1987—the phone call I’d been fretting on arrived.

Hi, Jim, it’s Jenny here, Lorna Dee has just had 4 pups. Still interested?

Absolutely—when can I come and see them?

They’ll be crawling around in about 3 weeks, so how about 4 weeks’ time?

So, 4 weeks to the day we were on Jenny’s doorstep, anxious to see our new pup. She invited us in and we got our first look at Hustler. So how did we come up with that name? Well as everyone knows all Huskies are mainly grey and white and have blue eyes. And I was a great fan of Paul Newman, having seen him in loads of films (Cat on hot tin Roof, Butch Cassidy, etc.) but the one that stood out for me was The Hustler. So, natural choice for a name except for one glaringly obvious fault—my Hustler had brown eyes.

Still, he was gorgeous and big and fat and very friendly—and he was mine—or so I thought. Jenny then broke the news that one of her clients had taken such a shine to the litter of four that he had offered her ridiculous money for all four of them. To her great credit, Jenny had told this guy that he could buy three, but the 4th was taken—by me. Don’t know what became of the other three, but all I remember is us driving to Jenny’s house, Bank Holiday Friday, August 1987 to pick up my Hustler.

(By now, I’d bought a book on the breed The Complete Siberian Husky by Lorna B Demidoff – The recognised bible for Sibe owners – and thought I was an expert. How wrong was I to be?)

Chapter 4

Living with a Siberian Puppy

The doorbell rang and woke me out of what was a deep sleep. Then I looked around and I realised I wasn’t in bed, but on the bottom step of the stairs of our brand new house. Confused, I stumbled to my feet and switched on the light and gingerly opened the front door to be confronted by a rather angry little old lady. At 3am in the morning?

Hi, what’s the problem? I tentatively asked.

The problem my young man is your bloody dog! (That’s the shortened and polite version).

Dog. What dog?

Well, if it isn’t a dog what the hell do you have in there with you?

And then the penny dropped.

That afternoon we’d arrived back from Jenny’s and after feeding and taking Hustler out for toilet training, we’d settled down for the night. As we also had a 4-month-old Cairn Terrier, Potter, and an 18-month-old cat, Baggins, in the house, we had decided to park Hustler on the settee between us for the evening to watch tele and let the other two pets meet him gently.

All was fine till we decided to put everyone to bed. Potter and Baggins slept together in the kitchen at the front of the house, so as per the advice we had been given we plonked Hustler in his own crate in the integral