Snow Dog: Canine Conquest of the Pole
by Jack Shamash
April 2023
In 1909, a team led by Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen set off to reach the South Pole. Here, for the first time, is an account of the expedition from the point of view of one of his dogs. [Disclaimer: The events described below may be largely historically inaccurate.]
1 June 1910
You know what bothers me? It’s the fact that the king of Norway turned up, wearing all his silly medals, in his thick coat, looking like an overstuffed pudding. He shook hands with everyone, told us how wonderful we were, patted us on the heads, and a bloody band struck up, as if it were a public holiday, and then he got back in his carriage and went away and we never saw him again.
It all started so hopefully. I thought we were going to go for a run in the park. I thought maybe the sailors were going to have a barbecue, like they often do on public holidays. Then they’d throw us the bones and the bits of fatty meat. The sailors would get drunk, fall asleep or fornicate with each other or with the women who always seem to hang around at such times. And we’d lie in the sun, and if no-one was looking, I’d go and inseminate one of the bitches.
But it wasn’t to be. Instead, the minute the king had gone, they made us walk up a plank into a ship. If they thought we were so bloody wonderful, it didn’t seem like much of a reward.
11 June 1910
This is a horrible ship. No deckchairs or couples walking arm in arm. Just a lot of sailors shouting at each other. I thought we might walk onto the ship, have a sniff around and then walk off again. But they made us go down a very narrow wooden stairway and then down another to where it was so dark that I could barely see the steps. And they put us on some kind of large wooden shelf, which ran almost the entire length of the vessel.
As if that wasn’t enough, they tied us down. We were wearing big leather collars and these were secured with strong ropes covered in tar, so we couldn’t chew our way through them. We couldn’t go more than a couple of feet in any direction. There we were, twenty four dogs crammed into a tiny space, and barely able to move.
There is one bitch that I like the look of. She has an attractive white spot of fur next to her arse. I would like to get to know her better. But the ropes make it impossible. I can’t even get a good sniff of her.
It’s far from quiet in the ship. All day we can hear winches squeaking and boxes banging in the hold. And every now and then there is a particularly loud clatter and all the other dogs start barking and I join in.
And we have nothing to eat. They put out some bowls of water and give us each a bone to chew on. The bones have almost no meat. We feel that if this is all we are going to be fed, we won’t last very long.
It was dusk before the ship started to move today. You can always tell when it’s dusk: there’s a slight coolness in the air and everything sounds softer. And just at that moment, we could feel the swaying of the ship—not gently rocking at anchor, but heaving up and down as it pushed through the tide towards the open sea.
“If no-one was looking, I’d go and inseminate one of the bitches.”
At first light, we were taken up on deck. I had hoped that we would be in sight of land, so I could jump overboard and swim for it. but the land was nowhere to be seen. Just grey skies and a grey sea.
25 June 1910
The ship smells horribly. There is a small coal burning stove—horrible smoky thing. And the place reeks of seal blubber, cut wood, and paraffin. Oh, and I don’t know what the men have been eating, but it has had a disastrous effect on their bowels. When the waves are too rough for them to do their business on deck, they carry buckets of slop through the boat and throw it over the side. The stench is appalling.
And through all this came another smell: that of horses. All dogs can recognise the smell of horses. We smell them before we hear them. They smell of oats and fields and horse shit. The first afternoon on board we could hear the horses whinnying as they were lowered down into another part of the ship’s hold.
When the waves get up, we can hear them stamping their hooves against the deck plank, as some of kind of distress signal. I wish they’d shut up, or kick each other to death.
18 July 1910
I can’t express how boring it is on board ship. The only relief from the tedium is when we get taken on deck to eat. We’re now being fed properly. One of the sailors will drag out a beef carcass and saw it up. A man with a cleaver will cut up large chunks and distribute them. We also get given biscuit: nothing special, but I’ve had worse.
After we have eaten, we all need to shit. One of the sailors takes a shovel and throws our turds over the side. And then we are led downstairs for another dose of complete tedium.
There are two men who look after the dogs. One of them just feeds us. The other grooms our hair and rubs oil into the pads of our feet. The sea has been getting up, so the boat pitches violently. The dog next to me has been violently ill, vomiting every hour on the hour. The two men are saying that they might have to throw him overboard. It wouldn’t bother me.
18 August 1910
For the last couple of weeks, the weather has got warmer as we’ve sailed towards the equator. When the weather is calm, we are allowed to lie on the deck and enjoy the sunshine. If only they’d let me have the bitch with the white splodge, I’d be quite happy to stay on board.
6 September 1910
Just when I thought we’d never get off this boat, we seem to have sighted land: lots of trees, lots of greenery. It has put a spring in our step.
8 September 1910
We’re really enjoying this island. The sailors put us all in a barn and chained us to a rope. But at least three times a day they take us out—in small groups—for exercise. They throw balls for us to catch, make us retrieve sticks, and there’s a lake where they take us to swim. Also there is fresh meat—plenty of it. We can feel ourselves getting stronger all the time.
12 September 1910
The humans have got a new game. They hitch us up to sleds and make us pull them along the paths. And they shout at us if we slow down. We actually enjoy it. And they give us treats afterwards—pigs ears to chew, marrow bone to suck. But they still won’t let me fuck the bitch with the white patch on her arse.
“The two men are saying that they might have to throw him overboard. It wouldn’t bother me.”
4 December 1910
We’re back on the ship and we’ve been bored rigid for the last couple of months. We were all in a good mood when we got back in the ship, but now we have no diversions at all, aside from being fed. Wake up, go on deck, eat shit, bark at each other, go back to our beds: it’s not exactly a pleasure cruise.
As the ship moves further and further south, we get colder. I spend half the time shivering.
3 February 1911
We’ve reached land—or, at least, a thick ledge of snow which we can walk across until we get to land. It’s bloody freezing; there’s nothing to see. I can only hope that there is something nice here to justify all this travelling. It looks like a bloody fool’s errand to me.
6 August 1911
We’ve been here for ages, freezing our nuts off. Everyday the men make us drag sleds filled with rocks. Is this to toughen us up? The wind howls all the time and we sleep outside most nights and wake up covered in snow. And they still won’t let us near the bitches.
Meanwhile, the men stay in their warm sheds—arguing, making noise, singing songs and dressing up in women’s clothing to amuse each other. They like reading books. If they wanted to read, they could have done so at home.
10 August 1911
I have learnt one thing on this trip: walrus blubber is delicious. The men managed to get hold of a walrus and kill it. It made a hell of a racket. They shot it a couple of times, without much effect. Then one of them got this huge gun, which looked like something you’d use to kill an elephant, and blasted the walrus twice. The animal’s head nearly came off. The men ate most of the meat, but we got the blubber.
12 August 1911
I have learnt something else. Penguins taste vile. Nasty, fishy, stringy meat. If I can avoid eating penguins in future, I will do so.
14 August 1911
“It’s not easy trying to cross the Antarctic with a perpetual stiffy.”
We’ve been told that we have to hurry. It seems that another group of men are trying to race us to the middle of this bloody snow. They’re welcome to it. I hope they win the race so we can go home.
16 August 1911
The weather is horrible and every day is pitch black. There is no sun, nothing, but we’re getting ready to move out. Six of us to every sled. And some bastard at the back shouting at us to pull harder.
25 August 1911
Snow and more fucking snow. I don’t know why they bother with this effort. We climb slowly to the top of a hill, dragging a sled behind us and we hope there is going to be something nice to see from the top, but instead it’s just another field of snow.
1 September 1911
The men have to cook the meat for us now. It makes it easier for us to eat. And it means we can go further. It’s not bad. Better than eating hard lumps of iced meat and sucking frozen blood.
7 September 1911
The horses are struggling to cope in the snow. Their hooves get stuck in the drifts and they struggle to pull them out. And one of the men has to hit them with a stick to make them go on.
15 September 1911
They’ve just put the bitch with the white rump in my team. She’s immediately in front of me. I’m desperate to fuck her. I think she waggles her arse just to get me worked up. It’s not easy trying to cross the Antarctic with a perpetual stiffy.
29 September 1911
Only yesterday, I was saying that I could eat a horse, and now I’m tucking into one. Two of the horses collapsed in the traces and it was easiest just to hit them on the head with a hammer. Then the men cooked them. The meat is pleasantly sweet.
10 October 1911
We haven’t been able to move for two whole days because of blizzards. One of the dogs got frostbite on his paws. The dog handler had to warm up his paw in front of a fire. No real harm seems to have been done. On the bright side, all the horses have had to be killed. So it will be nice fresh horse meat for the next few days.
21 October 1911
The dog who had frostbite was having trouble walking. So one of men dragged him away from us and hit him on the head with a spade. He was never much use when he was alive, but I’ve just been given part of his leg to eat and it’s surprisingly tender.
8 November 1911
There was bad news. The men ran out of fresh meat. So they had to boil up some sort of stew from dried fish, which smells absolutely vile. We dogs have been eating fairly well, because one of the lead dogs managed to slice open his paw on a nail and he had to be put down.
13 November 1911
After a good breakfast, all the dogs squatted in the snow. It’s funny to think that in 200 years my frozen turds and those of Mr Amundsen will still be here on the south pole. Future historians will examine them and get excited about their findings. I’m not worried. I’ve just produced a great big steaming log. It’s an impressive specimen: nothing to be ashamed of.
27 November 1911
One of the best days so far. The dog handler who was feeding us had to untangle one of the dogs who had got caught up in the leather straps for pulling the sled. While his back was turned I was able to get on top of the bitch with the white blob. Of course they tried to pull me away, but it was too late. I was inside her good and proper. So they had to let nature take its course.
“Is there no end to their stupidity?”
3 December 1911
One of the men died. The other men gathered around sang songs and buried him under a great pile of snow. What a waste! There was plenty of good eating on that man.
14 December 1911
For no particular reason, the men stopped the sleds in the middle of the day. They all started smiling, clapping each other on the back and jumping up and down. The place we had reached didn’t seem particularly special, but they announced that it was their goal. They put up a tent, wrote a letter, sang the Norwegian national anthem and looked as pleased as punch. Is there no end to their stupidity?
8 January 1912
How’s that for gratitude. We drag them across frozen wastes, do everything they ask and this is how they reward us. The men have started killing and eating the dogs. What a bunch of bastards.
12 January 1912
Just been woken up out of a nice sleep. And there’s a man standing over me with a spade. Put that down! That hurts! I hope I choke you! I hope you freeze to death! I hope you get eaten by a bear…
19 January 1912
Letter from Roald Amundsen; ‘The dogs have been very serviceable. They have been loyal and obedient and when we no longer needed them to pull the sleds, they provided us with a source of food. I intend to use dogs again on any future exploration.’
