Please note that this interview contains potentially upsetting and distressing content, which could evoke traumatic memories and/or strong negative emotions.

Interview with Louisa Cookie-Brown, who spoke from Kuujjuarapik on April 8, 2025.

In Kangiqsujuaq on November 23, 2024, the long-awaited federal apology for the Nunavik dog slaughter was delivered. Following that event, Tarralik reached out to elder Louisa Cookie-Brown to ask about her memories of what life was like before, during, and after the horrendous killing of her family’s sled dogs. What follows is a condensed and edited (for space and clarity) version of that discussion.

Tarralik: Could you share what life was like before the RCMP came and the dog slaughter began?

Louisa Cookie-Brown: Before the government came, we lived in the Richmond Gulf area. There was plenty of food, mostly seal, fish, some caribou. We travelled by dog team between seasonal camps. My parents, like many others, lived off the land. I was born on one of those journeys, before they even reached their summer camp. We were self-sufficient. Sealskins were traded through Kuujjuarapik where the RCMP were already set up by the 1950s. Eventually, we were told everyone had to register and move into the community. Many resisted, including my family, but there wasn’t really a choice. We moved when I was about four.

Tarralik: When did the dog slaughter happen?

Louisa: In Kuujjuarapik, it was in 1963. I was 13, going on 14. My father had come back from seal hunting and was exhausted. He asked me to feed the dogs. We had 14. I remember hearing gunshots, so I rushed to get the dogs tied up. I saw a white man coming toward us with a gun. I didn’t speak English then and I only knew one word: “Finished.” I stood in front of him and said it, trying to protect the dogs. He ignored me. He pushed me down. I got up. I was yelling “no” in Inuktitut. He pushed me again, harder, and I hurt my side. My throat went dry. I couldn’t cry; I was in shock. He shot every single dog, even the lead dog I was trying to protect.

I stumbled back into the house. My dad was under the blankets. He couldn’t move. I didn’t even know if he was alive. I told him the dogs were all shot. We had named each one of them, and I started calling out the dogs’ names. My mother told me to stop. Then I went outside to make sure none of them were suffering. I saw other families’ dogs were shot too. My uncle tried to drag his away to the shoreline, not wanting them killed near their huts. They were all shot as well. For days, we were silent. We didn’t know how we would survive.

That’s when everything changed. We entered into a system we didn’t understand. Kids were taken to school. Parents lost their roles and people started drinking. My father was in bed for days, completely depressed. So, I wrote the names of each of our dogs on paper in Inuktitut. I told my dad, “Let’s bury them.” That helped him start to move again.

Tarralik: You buried the names of the dogs?

Louisa: Yes. We went to the burial ground and placed the paper. We said goodbye. I told him, “We’ll never have dog teams again. Life has changed.” After that, he left. He said, “I cannot be here. I’m going to the land.” He signed up as a ranger and was gone for months. My mom raised the children alone.

Tarralik: Did you cry after the dogs were killed?

Louisa: Not right away. I was numb. But one day, my mom told me to get the harnesses. We undid the stitches, and she made a gun case from them. As we worked, I heard her softly crying and humming. I hugged her and that’s when we both finally cried. It was the first time.

Tarralik: What happened to all the dogs?

Louisa: They were taken down to the shore and burned. There were hundreds of them. It stunk. The day when they had to gather all dogs to burn them, it was like burning all our culture, and people wonder why we are so hurt. Afterward, we saw drinking, fighting, and violence in our community, things we had never seen on the land. Religion came too, telling us we were bad people. We had always seen ourselves as strong, capable, and spiritual. That was taken from us. We started seeing jealousy, gambling and abuse. It was a dark time.

Tarralik: You were at the apology in November. Did that do anything positive for you?

Louisa: It wasn’t closure, but it helped me let go of things; my dad and the dogs. The apology helped bring some understanding, but the pain stays. Each dog had its own role, like people do. We had dogs that could sense danger, some that were leaders in storms, others were workers. Some were trained to fight off wolves and polar bears. They were not just animals. I trained and fed them. They looked up to me.

Tarralik: What would you like young Inuit to know about what happened and how people moved forward?

Louisa: Dog teams kept us alive. Even having one or two dogs meant people had help to carry things. Now with Ivakkak races, I see the dogs, but they’re different. These are racing dogs, not working dogs like we had. But I’m glad the tradition is coming back in some form. When you go on the land with a dog team, it’s peaceful. There are no engine sounds, just the breathing of the dogs. It connects you to the earth.

We’ll never live like we did again, but we can remember. The huskies we had were strong, smart. Now, the dogs are smaller, and mixed. Back then, we were allowed one as a pet. The rest were working dogs. We’d carry the puppies on our backs, play with them and protect them.

Tarralik: What do you think needs to happen further to help with reconciliation and healing?

Louisa: Money isn’t healing. It’s gone fast. Real healing comes from talking, verbalizing what we went through. Each community should be given a full week to let go, to talk about the past. When I spoke in front of the government in Kangiqsujuaq [as part of the apology event], it was just the beginning. We need more spaces like that. We’ve been carrying this alone for too long.

Tarralik: Do you feel like you’ve healed?

Louisa: Not fully. I’ve let go of some things by speaking about them. But I wish we had those healing sessions soon after it happened when it was still fresh. Now, it’s incomplete. We were just kids. And those who lost their dogs, many still haven’t spoken. Men especially hold it inside. Letting go, even a little, is like breaking the chain that holds you.

Tarralik: You work a lot with youth. Do you see hope there?

Louisa: Yes, there are young people who want to learn. They’re interested in racing and raising dogs again. But they need to know that it’s hard work. It’s a full-time commitment. It’s not just for the winter. Dogs need care year-round.

Tarralik: Is there anything else you’d like to share?

Louisa: There are still people who’ve never spoken about what happened. One elder lost her dogs while gathering wood across the river. The RCMP found her there and shot the dogs, leaving her. She was so in shock she couldn’t speak for days. My mother and I visited her after she made her way home. She wasn’t really seeing us, just looking through us. Eventually she shared her story. But many others haven’t.

One thing I forgot to say: when I stood in front of the man (trying to protect the lead dog of her family’s dog team) the second time, the bullet he shot made a hole in my jacket. He came that close to shooting me. I didn’t even know until that night when I was removing my clothing and I realized, “oh, I almost got shot.” I think God kept me safe.

Tarralik: Thank you, Louisa.

Louisa: Thank you for listening. We’re still healing. But we’re survivors. And we remember.

Tarralik would like to feature other elders’ memories of the dog slaughter that was perpetrated in Nunavik. Please reach out to us at magazine@makivvik.ca.