kojote

(Trust me with the secret of fire)

Sandy Cleary, aka Таїсія: a literal coyote who can type. Writing dog and history geek who knows about Timed Hits. Somewhere between Miss Frizzle and Mr. Rogers—romance at short notice is my specialty; deep space is my dwelling place.

Solidarity forever!



Good morning, fuzzies :3 I hope that you’ve had a good weekend! And that you have a good week, too! Take care of yourselves, take care of those around you, and just generally keep being lovely people <3


I have so much space here, it’s wild. It’s not worth a lengthy writeup, but something that consumed a lot of my weekend is that it’s very hard for me to judge how credulous people in the past really were. I talked about it a little in the second Balto piece. Looking back on the era of patent medicines and petrified men, it’s tempting to think that people believed those stories, because printed refutations are often pretty uncommon.

In one of the Constant’s episodes about patent medicines, Mark Chrisler makes the case that people attending medicine shows weren’t idiots who genuinely believed in the curative power of snake oil—that “real” medicine at the time was liable to at best do nothing and at worst make you sicker, and if you’d gone to a medicine show, hey, at least you got some entertainment out of it—right?

It wasn’t until Adam Selzer’s 2017 HH Holmes: The True History of the White City Devil that the story of HH Holmes and his “murder castle” became understood as largely a myth, a creation contemporary yellow press. But, the question of “what did the contemporary press say?” and “what did contemporary readers believe?” and “what did contemporary readers believe the press believed?” are sort of separate.

Because one possibility is that everyone at the time knew that Holmes was just a conman with an unremarkable hotel, and it was so obvious that it didn’t need someone to say “c’mon, guys,” but as the decades wore on, that unpreserved common knowledge fell away. It’s tempting to read into the negative space. Leonhard Seppala calling the Nome Serum Run “hokum” was reported on contemporaneously, but it wasn’t a big deal and it’s tempting to read into that a sort of: “…yeah, and?”

“Oh, what. You’re telling me the 8th- or 9th-biggest town in the Alaska Territory wasn’t saved from obliteration by literal dogs like we all thought? How did you manage to rain so effectively on my parade? Wait—do you have one of those ‘cloud-busters,’ a thing I also totally believe in?”

But that kind of context, something so obvious it didn’t need to be written down, is the exact kind most easily lost. Then again, I don’t know whether anyone today believes that Hans Niemann cheated at chess via sex toy. And if they don’t, if we all know it’s a big joke, I definitely have no idea what people will think we believed in 30 or 40 years.

Anyway, have a very good dog who would definitely save Nome all on his own if he had to.


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in reply to @kojote's post:

your posts are of such good quality, dog, they are so thoughtful

regarding the dogs of Alaska, i feel like if people didnt believe in the story at least a little they wouldnt have gotten away with the cute statue? like it would've been more openly derided

I'll be honest, I don't know that much about the history of the Balto statue—where it came from, who wanted it, who paid for it... I don't know that it's true, for example, that it was funded by the donations of thousands of grateful and/or impressed citizens.

But also, I've been trying to tread a fine line here. The 1925 Serum Run definitely happened, in the sense that some dogs did some running carrying some medication. In terms of "how much was a hoax," I would stack-rank as, like:

  1. Incontrovertible: there were purposefully reporters on hand for the close of the run, and the mushers were keenly aware of the possibility of and desire for publicity.
  2. Almost certain: the press was informed of the serum run before it began (that is, they didn't learn about it organically) specifically to draw attention to the event by town officials.
  3. Highly likely: the serum run itself was designed to draw attention to the town and what the town wanted, rather than per se as the best way to solve a public health crisis.
  4. Likely: Leonhard Seppala was unhappy with the amount of credit he and his dogs got, and expressed his belief that the public story was inaccurate in Quebec in 1929.
  5. More likely than not: the next steps of the race (the press tour, the award, maybe the statue) were also planned, and not the natural result of public support and enthusiasm.
  6. Maybe: the serum run was not strictly necessary (i.e. Nome would've been just fine with their existing stockpile indefinitely)
  7. Maybe: Balto was selected for his name rather than for actually participating in the 1925 run.
  8. Maybe: Togo was measurably and dramatically more important to the run than any other lead dog, Balto included.
  9. Probably not: the Balto pictured and shown was picked off the street and never owned by Gunnar Kaasen or Leonhard Seppala.
  10. Impossible: the entire serum run was staged and/or the diphtheria outbreak itself was a creation of the local press.

i feel like if someone came across me with a bucket and asked me if i would take part in commemorating hero dogs with a small donation i could very easily become a grateful and/or impressed citizen!

i have to admit a little surprise (after doing some extra reading) that Seppala was so unhappy about Balto considering that he was his dog too. y'think the fella would be like "look at how many incredible dogs i can raise", but maybe im just biased towards being nice about dogs