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Eight BelowFebruary 10, 2008 People have been asking me if I'd seen Eight Below ever since the movie came out in 2006. "All the dogs look like Rhodry!" they said. Well, no: by the time the half-dozenth person had recommended it, Eight Below had left the Vineyard, and since I don't have a TV I'm not exactly a regular at Island Entertainment, Martha's Vineyard's foremost renter of videos and DVDs. True, Morgana V plays DVDs, but sitting still in front of the computer for two consecutive hours is not something I can bring myself to do. So my friend Elaine rented the DVD and invited Rhodry and me to come over for supper and watch it with her and Tillo. Tillo and Rhodry slept through most of it. Not me. True, as a movie Eight Below isn't all that great. As you watch, you're continually aware that So-and-So is saying or doing X so that Y might happen; otherwise there would be no story. Hardass station commander overrules hero's sensible reservations about conveying eminent scientist to Mount Melbourne. Eminent scientist commits stupidity because he knows more about science than about ice. So what? In Eight Below the humans are all spear carriers -- like, who needs them? The real story is the dogs, and the place, which is supposed to be Antarctica, but I read it was filmed in Greenland. Whatever, it's austere and beautiful and gorgeously photographed -- sort of like Lawrence of Arabia, but with ice instead of sand. Eminent scientist not only breaks his leg but falls through the ice, from which he is rescued by Maya, the lead dog. Hero packs frozen scientist into sled and high-tails it back to base with humongous storm incoming. Eminent scientist and station crew are evacuated, intending to come back for dogs -- you're way ahead of me: Antarctic winter is coming on, right behind humongous storm; dogs are expendable. Once the humans are gone, all but one of the dogs manage to get free of their collars. The story is about how they survive the long, long winter, but (because the human actors need exposure to their fans) we spend too much time watching humans emote in greener climes. I love the dogs. Knowing what I know about Rhodry and his kin and the northern breeds in general, I didn't think it was much of a stretch. Pack dogs work together. Over the years I've many a time seen Rhodry sleeping peacefully under a coverlet of snow. Our first winter on Dunham Ave., neighbors would knock on the door to tell me my dog was outside, and it was snowing. "He'll tell me when he wants to come in," I'd say, while they probably contemplated reporting me to the MSPCA. Still, he's never been the most stoic of dogs: if he stepped on something sharp, he'd yelp and carry on till he realized he wasn't dead. These days, though, he's as valiant as one of the huskies and malamutes abandoned at the bottom of the world. Climbing up the stairs is hard work. I think he does it mainly because I ask him to: he'd be OK spending the night in the cold at the bottom of the stairs. Yesterday his left hind leg was noticeably weaker than the day before. Was this the beginning of the slide toward the end? Today he slept till about 11:30 a.m. Once he got up and started moving around, it seemed the leg was better. Several times a day I sit down with him; he puts his head on my lap, I stroke his back and scratch his ears. I tell him over and over that I'm glad he's my puppy, and that if he's ready to let go I'll do my best to take care of myself. I think he's a little perplexed about why his leg sometimes gives out, and why he can't jump onto the bed or into the truck the way he did not so long ago. I don't think he worries about what does or doesn't come next, as long as I don't drive away without him.
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