Adventures of Sasha's Gang--Chapter 10

 

Adventures of Sasha's Gang

Chapter Ten

“That’s all any of us really get,” I replied.  “Let’s roll the dice!”

Since Mama had not heard the RN half of my phone conversation, I brought her, as well as the others, up to speed as Turquoise lingered at my feet.

“They doing spleen surgery?” she asked.

“As soon as possible,” I answered.  “Maybe in the morning.”

“You’re a good human,” Mama said, looking appreciative, as she rubbed against my leg, much like a cat seeking love.  “The world needs more people like you.”

“Just because we’re helping Lucky?” I asked.

“Well, that…” Mama continued.  “But more so I can smell it.”

“Smell it?” I retorted, puzzled.

 

“Not only can we smell cancer,” she paused.  “But we can also smell love.”

“Come on?” I was at a loss for words.  “How’s that work?”

“Don’t know how.  Just know it does.” 

“What’s love smell like?” I asked.

Mama paused in thought for a moment before tranquilly answering: “It smells like beauty all around you.”

“Yeah, I can smell it too,” Madden said, sans his usual gruffness.  “I smelled it as well when we lost Cherokee.  Kind of a medicine odor.  But also smelled the love.  The beauty as Mama says.”  Words as soft as a Kenny G saxophone. 

Bambi spoke next, a few feet from the assembly of dogs: “I can smell your mood before you say a word.” 

Socrates chimed in: “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

Big Hoss, the white-as-snow Great Pyrenees, who lethargically seldom spoke, added, “We don’t need expensive toys.  Just your time.”

I had never experienced such a lovefest before in my life with a pack of loosely incarcerated dogs.  My eyes watered involuntarily.  While the pandemic had chewed us up financially, my immediate retirement postponed, I had experienced nearly a romance with Sasha’s and her customers.  Since my dogs at home had passed away over the past six years, Sasha’s dogs have become my surrogate canine family.   

“Sometimes your yelling scares me,” Eisenhower said.  “But your belly rubs are the best north of Fort Lawton.” 

So, yes, I acknowledge I can be decibel-challenged sometimes when attempting to silence or correct an over-exuberant pack of dogs.  But it works for the most part.  They listen and sometimes even modify their behavior.  A few less barks or a peaceful migration to our sleeping quarters.  On the other hand, my scolding could also be leaving toxic canine ulcers in its threatening wake. So if I can talk with them, I might better understand their perspective and reduce those ice-pick moments of shouting.  And now I have that chance. Literally.

“Well, I appreciate all the love,” I said. “But Lucky is having surgery…and I need to be honest with you.  Prospects are still not good.  If you pray to a higher power, I urge you to say one for Lucky.”

“Amen.” Bambi whispered.

“I only have one prayer…one I use for everything” Madden said with a crooked grin, fangs yellowed.  “God…don’t let me get myself into something that you can’t get me out of.  Pure and simple.”

“Sounds like good advice,” I smiled, then spoke to the group.  “The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning.” 

Spouse decided to spend the night at a B&B in the river town of Snohomish, since it was a good 90-minute drive from Sasha’s but just down the street from the vet. She wanted to be there with Lucky for paw-holding through the procedure.  A familiar face in the chaos, even though they had just met that day.   

"God speaks in the silence of the heart,” Socrates stirred, prone on the floor as she was apt to do. “Listening is the beginning of prayer."

“I’ve got a helluva headache,” Hoss groused, his polar-bear-size underscoring it as a far larger crisis than a simple elfin hiccup in a chihuahua’s brainstem.  He laid upon the tile floor, its chill welcome through his massive fur.

“Headache?” I pondered aloud.  “Dogs get headaches?” I asked.

“Does a fat baby fart?” Madden challenged.  “Of course we do.  Even migraines. Heartburn.  Diabetes. Type one and two.  Every flavor of cancer to ever grace a CAT scan. And toothaches that mimic the pain of labor.”

“We’re a petri dish of maladies,” Mama explained.  “But we don’t sashay abou7 bemoaning that fact like most humans do.”

“Ah.  I know the drill,” I grinned.  “Sometimes us two-leggeds do become a bit over-fixated on our misdemeanor sniffles…pole-vaulting mouse turds as I like to say.”

“In other words, you won’t catch us grunts bellyaching about insignificant maladies,” Eisenhower spoke gruffly.  “Think General Patton would have slapped each and every one of them.”  He referenced the famous WWII general who was simultaneously revered and detested for slapping a sobbing soldier who claimed he was afflicted with post-traumatic stress syndrome…or some such nonsense as Patton had said with disdain.

Hoss continued: “So while you are all having fun turning my pain into a community debate…but my head still throbs something terrible.”

“Sorry,” Mama apologized. “We weren’t making light of it.  We need to help you reduce your stress levels.”

“No medicine?” Hoss whimpered, his mammoth polar bear figure puddling to the floor in disappointment.

“Sorry no,” she answered.  “You can’t take human pain relievers. Ibuprofen, Tylenol or even aspirin can be very dangerous and highly toxic to us dogs.” She went on to describe how many vets—after they first test and confirm the headache isn’t the result of sinus/ear infections, stroke, gum disease or high blood pressure—that they deploy the holistic approach in which the dog’s stress levels are reduced by turning down lights, banning barking, relaxing the dog via massage, soft music and no coffee or sex!

And to that end, I laid down a couple of soft doggie beds in the puppy room, located in the rear of the building away from foot traffic.  I called out to Hoss who was lethargically displeased that he had to relocate his 120 pounds 40 yards south.  But some headaches give you no other choice.  That’s a dog’s life.  With no electricity, there were no lights to turn down. Just a candle or two as late November twilight seeped into our shadowed location around four in the afternoon.    

 

Across the street at the new Marymoor condos, residents were out that morning once the sun rose, exploring the neighborhood and seeking propane-powered lattes and pastries while taking their dogs for their daily walks and biological breaks.  Remaining clear and chilly, it was certainly a layered day fashion-wise, some folks even sporting gloves and woolen Seahawks caps.  Bedtime was simplified…no electric blankets but down comforters from the spare bedrooms and of course dogs eager to cuddle and warm. 

Once Hoss was settled into the puppy room and lightly covered with a musty quilt, everyone else retreated to the main room where their community mattress awaited them.  “Night all,” Hoss moaned quietly. 

"What we doing for fun?" the fur-ball Maple, a golden doodle, asked with puppy zeal typical for her 14-month-old age--tongue hanging, eyes glowing, hips bouncing. 

“Many of us are going to lay down soon and prepare for another night of shared sleeping quarters,” Mama said maternally, as if to a grandchild. “Are you about ready?”

“I’m a puppy.  I’m s’posed to like to run and play. That’s what us puppies do.”

“Puppies need sleep as well,” she corrected.

“And food too,” Maple said cynically.  “I mean is dinner, like, canceled or something?”

I came to the instant realization that there wasn’t much difference in attitude between teen-age humans and teen-age dogs.  Only the number of legs and tails and car keys. 

“Coming right up,” I quipped.  We follow the sun so this typically means dinner at five in the winter and at seven in the summer.  I had actually somehow forgotten about dinner.  Maybe because usually my wife is here at that part of the day and often takes it upon herself to ensure everyone gets fully nourished. 

Thus, makes my life exponentially easier.  Especially when we have 20 or more dogs, each with their own brand and mix of dog food--that an effort to avoid some common food allergies between dogs. Our house food is the blue bag salmon and rice from Costco.  Most dogs seem to enjoy it, but not in a snarly, I’ll-kill-you-if-you-touch-my-food fashion. A pleasant taste, but also something they’re willing to share with cellmates.  After all, it isn’t lobster tail.

But tonight they are all receiving the same blue bag special: salmon & rice.  Only because I’m not going to squint my eyes in candlelight trying to decipher whose food is whose in the dog run register.  Sorry, no lemon garnishes from me.

“So I have to ask,” I turned to Mama as the other dogs retreated to the mattress room, Turquoise remaining behind.  “I’ll put their food out first.”

“That’s good for a positive google review,” she revealed her marketing prowess.

“But I have to ask…do you dogs know how to pray?  Or do you even believe in a God?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Mama answered, as I went to pour salmon kibbles for our group.

“Now Madden here is an atheist…essentially believes in himself.  No higher powers or deities. Just his sharp claws and teeth. Whereas Bambi is a Christian who talks to Jesus every day.  And Mark Spitz worships Poseidon, a major sea god.  Most appropriate.”

“And you?” I asked.

“Zen Buddhist.”

This throws me for a loop.  Only because of my Western culture, I know a great deal about Christian theology.  But I know squat about Buddhism and their beliefs. “So you pray to a Buddhist deity?”

“No sir,” she said almost with pride.

“Then to what?”

“The fundamental nature of reality,” her words rapid with knowingness.  “And with it an awakening that has no relationship to a supreme being. Rather a connection to interdependence, emptiness and oneness.”

Doesn’t sound like a two-way radio to me, not in the theological sense.  Like owning a computer monitor without the computer.  You can keystroke all you like but the message only appears on your screen.  You can call anyone you like on their phone, but not without their phone number.  “Yes operator.  It’s a Mister God. Don’t have his address.”  So much for prayer.

“You guys have a real mixed bag of beliefs?” I clarified.

“We are severely non-denominational,” Mama concurred. “But the beauty of it is we’re all okay with everyone’s beliefs.  There are no rights and wrongs.  We’re not focused on converting others to our beliefs.  All beliefs and gods are legitimate and good.  We don’t need you to believe in our Gods to legitimize them.  Your permissions are not required.”

It felt like a slap in the face, a muted insult. I had to remind myself that I was truly dealing with an altered reality. 

 

“Well, I’ll be saying my prayers for Lucky tonight,” I said.  “I’m pulling for him.”

“As am I,” Mama said softly. “I just don’t need to strain my prayers through stained glass windows…(to be continued)