Meriweather Lewis got himself one great deal when he picked up a dog in Pennsylvania. The twenty bucks he paid for his furry buddy way back in 1803, translates to well over $500 bucks today. Seaman wasn't cheap.
But if, today, he decided to pick up a real Newfoundland puppy--he'd pay twice that, even three times as much. I'm not kidding. An honest-to-goodness Newfie pup, not some cheap facsimile, could clean out a checking account.
If he could've got by with a whippet or chihuahua, the relative heft would have had less of an effect on the corps, who ended up polling or pulling their whole package of goods up the considerable flow (five miles an hour--with no wind). I mean, Newfies can tip the scales at 200 pounds, although, given his circumstance, it's unlikely Seaman was that kind of load.
In fact, he was a workout king who didn't just sit aboard the boat like Java the Hut. Oh, no--he was off and running every other day when Lewis, a scientist by nature and inclination, would go out looking for unforeseen treasures along the banks of the Missouri, treasures, like say, prairie dogs. No one had ever seen a prairie dog, so they shot one and stuffed it because Mr. President Jefferson wanted to know about every new thing dead or alive from this massive hunk of real estate he'd picked up for a song from the French.
Newfies are huge, muscular, powerful, as good in the water as they are on land, maybe better--after all, they've got webbed feet. On land at least, a skinny greyhound would make a Newfie look like a sea turtle, but get a beast like Seaman in the water and he'll turn half-gator.
If Seaman was smart enough to write a book, his diary would look nothing at all like the those left behind by the Corps. Seaman's daybook would record foibles and adventures, strange and even fearful meetings no one else knew or experienced because--you won't believe this!--Master Lewis let his big guy run at night when the men were fast asleep from 16-hour days in and out of the water.
We know Lewis let Seaman snoop around because he says, once in a while, that he spent some time looking for his big furry friend, hoping Seaman wouldn't have taken on some grizzly or even a badger--they'd never before seen a badger either, by the way. “His Shape & Size is like that of a Beaver," Clark reported about this strange new creature. "His head mouth &c. is like a Dogs with Short Ears,' , "his Tail and Hair like that of a Ground Hog."
That's a badger of course, not Seaman, as everyone around here knows, thanks to the statue out front of the Lewis and Clark Center makes unforgettably clear. Seaman was a hundred pounds of huge, a monster who dwarfs the two humanoids figures behind him--"and what were their names again?"
Lewis almost lost him once, far down the river and on the way back, in fact, when the Corps of Discovery was having real trouble keeping track of belongings. It was April, '06, and they were in the company of Nez Perce, who so admired things the Corps had, and used, and gave away, that they grabbed what they could when they could--including, one night, Seaman.
Lewis was livid. He sent out three men armed to the teeth, and told them in no uncertain terms not to return without dog. Took them awhile, but when they showed up, you couldn't miss that big, black Newfie, whose big red mouth was likely turned up into a smile. Stephen Ambrose says, "Lewis may have been ready to kill to get Seaman back, but the Indians weren't ready to die for the dog."
I can't help thinking we ought to look for a major motion picture sometime soon, a Disney production, a rich collection of the stories only Seaman could tell--long, dark nights alone on the banks of the Missouri. Pixar maybe.
Not long after their return, Captain Lewis died, and when he did, people say, Seaman was so full of grief he refused to eat and died himself soon after.
So next time you're down at the Lewis and Clark Center, get a selfie of you and Seaman, that great monster Newfie.
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