Silent spirit, powerful strides

He was black-and-white with long legs, shaggy fur, and these strange brown eyes flecked with blue. But the eyes weren’t kind. They weren’t expressive. When you looked at Gazik, it was like staring into deep water – unreadable, indifferent. It was hard to tell what was going on behind them, if anything at all.

He didn’t bond with people. Not really. Maybe one of our previous handlers managed it, just a little. But most handlers couldn’t get close to him. Not emotionally, and not physically either. If you moved too quickly, raised your voice, or brought too much energy into his space, he’d just vanish. Shut down. Run away.

And that’s the thing. For all the difficulty, Gazik loved to run. And not just trot along in a team – he ran like he was born for it. Fast, focused, powerful. He had drive like you wouldn’t believe.

Leading on his own terms

From the very beginning, he made it clear that being anywhere but up front wasn’t good enough. He wanted to lead. He needed to lead. And he had the physical and mental sharpness to do it – if you could manage him properly.
He was a phenomenal lead dog if, and only if, you managed him right. You couldn’t talk to him the way you talk to most dogs. You couldn’t shout encouragement. You couldn’t be loud or excited or stressed. He’d sense it and he would fold. Just lie down in the snow and quit.

But if you brought your energy down – way down – if you matched his quiet, cautious pace, something magical happened. You could whisper a command, and he’d swing the team 90° off the trail into the deep snow without breaking stride. He’d turn like that because he trusted you. But only if you stayed calm. Only if you earned it.

Gazik forced me to check myself. Every emotion. Every instinct to bark a correction or push harder. With him, I had to strip it all back and operate with total calm, precision, and patience. I had to adjust to him.

And when I did, when I got it right, he was one of the best lead dogs I’ve ever had.

What dogs can teach us

Most of my colleagues couldn’t work with Gazik. “He doesn’t get along,” they would say. “Too nervous. Too difficult.” And they weren’t wrong … unless you learned his language. And that was the lesson. You don’t always get to demand that the dog adapts to you. Sometimes you have to adapt to the dog.

And catching him? Nearly impossible … unless you knew the trick!

If Gazik ever got loose, the worst thing you could do was chase him. That only made things worse. But if you just quietly walked to the dog trailer and opened one of the doors – that was his safe place. He’d see you, trot over, hop right in, and wait. Then you could leash him, and all was well.

There’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but really, it was just a perfect picture of who he was. No force. No fuss. Just a silent agreement between dog and human.

Gazik ran for many years. Longer than his sisters, who unfortunately inherited a genetic predisposition for cancer. Even into old age, he had that same elegance, that same intense drive. We still have photos of him running, and they’re something else – powerful, composed, and full of quiet purpose.

He was never the easy one. But he taught me something critical: That managing dogs isn’t just about strength, commands, or routine. Sometimes it’s about you. About calming down, letting go of expectations, and meeting a dog exactly where they are.

Gazik was weird. He was closed off. He could be a real pain in the ass. But he was also brilliant, and sensitive, and fast as hell. And he left behind more than just memories – he left me better at what I do.

— Valentijn Beets

Bearhill Husky