The Adventures of Sasha's Gang--Chapter 14

Adventures of Sasha’s Gang—Chapter 14

“Hey,” I answered, my grief poised to take flight.  “Yeah, hi sweetheart.”  Delaney stood by my side, her eyes begging for answers her voice couldn’t articulate.  “Gotcha,” I said solemnly. 

I switched to speaker mode.  “Hello.  This is Doctor Coleman again.  Lucky has valiantly hung in there…even with all the blood loss.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Delaney, outside the operating room waiting for Lucky to be moved to post-op, blurted, on the verge of weeping again.

“I’m not making any promises,” the doctor said, tossing her blue gloves into the trash bin.  “He did lose a great deal of blood…but we were able to infuse him multiple times.  Which has kept him alive and functioning.  We’re not out of the woods…by any stretch…but if he survives the next 48 hours, his odds of survival increase dramatically.” 

“Can I come be with him? Delaney asked.

“Absolutely!” the doctor responded.  “Patient outcomes improve when we see the owners show that kind of moral support.  Most appreciated. And the dogs know it too!”

“We’ll send her up your way on an Uber,” I said, afterwards suggesting to spouse that she arrange a room for Delaney courtesy of Sasha’s.  And I was delighted to hear that Dr. Coleman and team had agreed to donate their services for Lucky’s surgery and post-care.  Now we just need to usher him away from the throes of death.  Delaney returned home for a change of clothes and toothbrush where the Uber picked her up and transported her north to Snohomish vet facility.

I took a seat adjacent to Turquoise so as to reconnect with the pack as I gently placed my hand atop her head. “Good news,” I announced.  “Lucky is out of surgery and holding his own.”  With that the canine chorus rejoiced with a few howling shout-outs and exchange of licks and joyful tails.  Even though a newcomer to Sasha’s, Lucky was still celebrated as one of Sasha’s Gang.  “That doesn’t mean he’s home Scot-free,” I added.  “A lot still depends on Lucky’s conditioning.  While the spleen is a minor organ, it’s still responsible for supporting an animal’s immune system…in terms of helping kill harmful pathogens and such.”

“When will he be considered healed?” a serious Madden asked.

“The vet mentioned 48 hours as the danger period,” I answered.  “So if Lucky beats that, he’ll still need to be watched and cared for afterwards…but his chances of beating this get increasingly better over time.”

“Thank God,” Bambi said, finding solace in Lucky’s relatively good fortune.  After all, he could be dead, which was the frequent outcome of canine spleen cancer.

“So this is joyous news!” Mama exalted in their good fortune. “Please embrace Lucky with your prayers and healthy thoughts.  And as the newest member of Sasha’s Gang!”

“Can we invite Ming to join the gang as well?”  Bambi asked.

“Certainly,” Mama concurred.  “If he wants to…though maybe he has family that’ll be coming to take him home.”

“Only distant family,” Ming said softly, brushing back his tangled coiffure with a petite paw.  “But I do have a mentor I live with in Fall City… on the Snohomish River.”  Fall City, located in the Cascade foothills and famous for summertime inner-tubing, is legally called a city though in reality it is little more than a river bend with a two-lanes, smoking tractors, elephant ears and marching bands parade during the summer solstice--and no more than a country sheriff to keep the tavern patrons in order and not peeing in the river.

“So troops,” Mama said.  “We have a few hours until dark.”  November in Redmond-Seattle remains lit until only about 4:30 pm.  The slant of the earth, you know.  “So take this time to enter your biometrics into Bambi’s computer and we will forward to our Ligonberry AI team tomorrow.  And in the meantime, if any of you lucky souls happen to inherit a few hundred-thousand dollars…we could certainly use a loan to keep this initiative afloat.”

“My owner’s retired,” said Spitz, the snow-white in-house hydrologist.  “So no funding there.”

“Mine neither,” Hoss said, yawning. “She just had surgery for gout.  Not doing so well.”

“Maybe we should consider some limited military action,” Ike spoke, his mind marching like Patton on D-Day.  “In a funding emergency such as this, there is plenty of historical data…what some might refer to as looting was in reality reappropriations.  And militarily legal and justified.”

Wait a moment I thought to myself…Ike is somehow legally leveraging our empty coffers to the level of bunkers on Normandy beach.  Two different situations entirely.  One is in the most threatening war-zone in the world and the other is a far-flung stratagem attempting to barter for increased canine lifespans. But the military mindset is one of dominance, sacrificing whatever it takes to capture the flag. 

“I can help,” Ming speaks in a murmured almost muzzled dialect, difficult to understand. It sounds like “I Campbell.” 

“We don’t need no chunky soup,” Madden couldn’t resist. “Or Yuans.”  Another moniker for China’s second currency to Renminbi, which could cover Sasha’s Gang’s clinical debt.  Mama says not a word, but rather simply rolls her titanic chocolate eyes in displeasure. 

“Yikes,” I say, though a word I don’t remember saying any other time in my life. “Phone.  Maybe my wife.”  But the area code of the call is somewhere in Southern California. “Sasha’s Pet Resort,” I answer.

“Is it Lucky?” Bambi asked.  I simply shook my head as I listened intently to the caller.    

“Yes.  We do have space…for three you say?”  I concentrate to decipher the scratchy call, my hearing long in the tooth. 

“Ages?” I asked.

“Two of ‘em are four and the other is five?”

“And breed?”  Usually a good prognosticator of temperament—though certainly not fool-proof.  I’ve had pit bulls that melted in my hands like butter on popcorn and a cocker spaniel that bit right through my fingernail beneath the protection of my rawhide gloves.

 “French bulldogs? I responded with curiosity.  This was a high-octane breed often selling for five grand or more.  These are not trailer park canines--the Renault breed.  I listened.

“Yes,” I gently nodded.  “Okay.  Starting December third.  For how long?”

I continued to nod my agreement.  “And your name?”  Intense listening.

“So Jessica.  These are your pups?”

“Oh no, sir.” The women’s voice overflows my phone’s speaker.  “I’m her assistant.”

“Whose assistant?” I pursue.

“The lady’s,” she answers.

 

“Okay? ” My response a question in kind.

She continues.  “I work with Lady Gaga.”

“Lady Gaga?” I repeated, my voice trembling slightly, out of idol worship.  There are no humans in the room other than myself with whom to share this life-altering discovery. 

“Really? Bambi takes delight in the celebrity-dropping thrill ride.  “The Lady Gaga?” There’s not many doggy daycares that house celebrities’ dogs.

“One and only apparently,” I reply, a bit awed myself.  I adore Lady’s music and her unique artistry--Just Dance and Bad Romance, a few of the many.

“Oh my gosh,” a flustered Bambi exclaims.  “I heard all about that horrible shooting in LA.”  She went on, explaining that less than five years back, two of the famous singer/songwriter Lady Gaga’s French bulldogs had been dognapped. The Lady’s professional dog walker, a college student in his late 30s, was accosted while walking the three dogs one early evening on Rodeo Drive or some similarly bejeweled avenue.  An expensive black SUV with mafia-tinted windows pulled to the side of the road and a perp jumped out with a menacing black handgun quivering in his nervous hold. 

After the assailants had captured two of the dogs, one of the thieves seriously bitten and bleeding--the walker fought back and was shot in the stomach.  This is when the kidnappers abandoned their efforts to capture the third dog and sped off with the two captives and a female accomplice at the wheel.  The dog walker was taken to the hospital with non-life-threatening wounds. 

“And what happened?” Spitz asked, a lover of French culture and canines.

“Lady Gaga offered a half-million dollars for their return,” Bambi replied.

“Does she want to own another dog?” Madden asked good-naturedly, boldly targeting an inheritance in his near future

“Only if you’re French…and a bulldog,” Spitz replies. “In which case, you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell…or worse.”

“But maybe she has a sudden attraction for a black lab with a high IQ,” Madden offers.

“Why?” Spitz asks.  “Do you know of any?”

“Ha, ha, ha…” Madden’s fake laugh.

“A woman went to the police looking to collect the half million reward,” Bambi said.  “Can’t fix stupid.  She was the driver of the getaway car!”

Aware of the many scams on small businesses, I unleashed my bad cop.  “How do we know you’re really with Lady Gaga?  And of all the doggy daycares in the area, why you choosing Sasha’s.”

“Good questions all,” the woman said.  “My name’s Jessica.  I’ve been Lady’s point person for nearly four years.  Here’s our phone number for verification.”

“A good first step,” I responded.  “But why Sasha’s?” I repeated.

 

“Lady’s doing a nearly three-week run of Christmas shows at the Paramount beginning in two days,” Jessica explained.  “All the way through New Year’s Day.”

“Gotcha…”

“And she doesn’t want to be away from her girls for that long…so she decided to bring them up with her.”

“So why in Redmond when her gig is in downtown Seattle?” I posed. Seemed counterintuitive.

“Seattle’s a bit of a logistical mess during the holidays,” she replied.  “But there’s a delightful B&B just a few blocks from Sasha’s which Lady can visit each evening with a 30-minute train ride.  Anonymous, cheaper and quicker than a limo.  No one other than us will know where Lady is staying at night.  Far less headaches this way.”

That all made sense to me.  Three dogs a night at $50 each for approximately 25 nights…or $3,750.  Will go a long ways to paying Sasha’s rent. 

“Sounds like you pass muster…” I said. “I’ll email you an enrollment form tonight…and we’ll plan on seeing you and the pups here by Friday.”  After the closing pleasantries, I phoned her back to secure details and to verify her phone number.  All checked out. 

An hour later, my phone rang again.  Wife.  “Hey hon,” I answered.  “Everything okay?”

“Lucky’s out of surgery.  All vitals are looking strong.”

“That’s encouraging,” I replied.  “The bleeding stop?”

“The doctor said it has eased…or maybe even stopped. But again time will be the judge.  Now it’s just a matter of monitoring and taking whatever steps are necessary.”

I felt no different than when my father had had cancer surgery and they removed his right lung with just a quarter inch to spare.  Hallelujah! I rejoiced no differently or any less, feeling an unexpected empathy for a dog that had been an acquaintance of mine for only a few days. 

“How’s Delaney doing?”

“As one could appreciate…she’s up and down.  But elated that Lucky survived the surgery.  He’s still groggy.”

“Well…guess that’s about an encouraging a result we could have hoped for,” I replied.

“Absolutely,” she gushed a bit.  “Since our only other option was likely the Rainbow Bridge.”

I paused, changing speeds for a quick moment. “You’re never going to guess who our newest celebrity dogs are going to be!”  There were a few extra calories of enthusiasm in my voice.

“Marshawn Lynch’s two Mastiffs,” she teased memorably.  As part of Sasha’s marketing efforts, we had attempted to attract some star Seahawk’s dogs at half our usual charge.  But Marshawn, who was our primary target, already had a favored dog sitter who lived in a mother-in-law apartment on Marshawn’s estate.   Not even a 50% discount would not gain traction with this gridiron behemoth/millionaire.  

“No,” I smiled and then lightly sung a song passage with my: “Stop callin’, I don’t wanna think anymore…I left my head and my heart on the dance floor.” In this instance, my daddy would have reminded me not to quit my day job.  He was usually spot on for an old guy.  And now, I’m him!

“Not that your crooning…or mooing…or whatever that was s’pose to be…gave me any sorta clue..but are those lyrics from Bad Romance?” I could sense a swirling excitement taking this usually stoic RN hostage.  “Really?  The Lady Gaga? Really?”  She ascended an octave. Maybe two. Back off the ledge, lady…don’t jump!

“Of course, we’ve been scammed a few times before…but think this is for real,” I said, adding color to the reservation. “Three French Bulldogs for a few weeks.  Confirmed with her social manager.”

“Oh my God,” wife and chief photographer/comptroller exclaimed.  “Sasha’s can use the money for December rent.”  This was a conversation we had often, even after six years in business.  Far too often.

“I violently agree!” I answered.  “So I’m setting up our puppy/hospice room for them.  And no publicity about this…I really don’t want any dognapping attempts at Sasha’s.”

“Lips are watertight as a whale’s ass,” wife giggled. “Still can’t believe we have Lady Gaga coming to Sasha’s!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” I reminded her. “All we have are reservations for three dogs.  We may never see hide nor hair of Lady herself.”  Jessica had shared with me the BnB she had reservations at…but that was only under the threat of death if I spilled the beans.”

“Poopy, damn, fart!” She used one of my father’s favorite profanities.

“We’ll adjust,” I teased.  She could walk away from a patient’s death with the stoicism of a television ER doctor but then rejoice with the squeal of a 1963 Beatles-loving teen-age girl.  Her emotional barometer ran the gamut from peak to abyss…lava to ice…and much in between. “And it is a much-needed chunk of change,” I added.  “Especially with Christmas just ‘round the corner.”

And in that moment, Turquoise shed her coat of silence, though still shadowed by unobtrusiveness.  It was as if I had stumbled into a TikTok fake scenario created by artificial intelligence.  The room, which had just darkened a bit with the 4:30 dusk, instantly froze as if a Pixel movie, everything non-moving in the room crystallized into a wavering translucent blue.  The only thing in 4-D and technicolor was the steadfast Turquoise who had spoken maybe ten words to me since we so serendipitously met a few days earlier. 

My arm again radiated with the familiar narcotic 100-yard-dash up my arm—akin to snorting Pop Rocks in a tavern dare—though it was still highly pleasant—almost intoxicating.  Had to ask: had the room actually dimmed or my eyes had.  Either way, Turquoise had my rapt attention.  She peered up from the translucent nest of a golden aura, her neon blue eyes studying, probing me, as if an MRI scan without the bongos.  “Can you hear me, Dan?” she transmitted.  Her voice candy cotton soft, inviting and imbued with empathy.

I didn’t need to answer as she deciphered my slight nod. 

“I have come from across the water,” she said.  “With me, I have brought the wisdom of the canine family.”  Apparently, the other dogs were not participating in this discourse since there were no rebuttals.  I was uncertain who or what controlled the network.  Sasha’s Gang Transcripts, LLC? 

At this point in my magical mystery tour, it was irrelevant.  My world had gone sideways but with a perverted sense of goodness.  The wholesale change in my profession as a dog whisperer had never been prophesied, but it had enchantingly happened.  Unlike the Sedgeway Scooter (Think movie; The Mall Cop), which was going to reinvent the science of personal transport--came and went like a bad dinner guest, to be replaced in time by Lime scooters at a tenth of the cost and half of the headaches.   My banal and mundane tenure as a doggy daycare proprietor had also undergone a major makeover.  Beyond picking up poop and mopping urine and paying rent and taxes.  I was now conversing intelligently with my menagerie of dogs and hosting celebrity pups.  Even helped save Lucky’s life…at least thus far!

“You realize we dogs are truly endowed with supernatural powers?  Like our ability to read human emotions?  Fear? Love? Illness?”  Turquoise is a colorful animation against the hushed bluish backdrop of translucence. “And much of

 

that happens via our sense of smell.”  She goes onto explain that dogs have over 200 million olfactory nerves in their giant snouts whereas the tiny noses of humans are limited in space to only 5 million nerve endings; ergo, the great disparity in ability to smell. A good number of folks don’t have the inherent ability to smell a criminal politician, whereas a dog can detect a drop of blood in an Olympic-sized pool.   

“Not only were we aware that one of our own was sick with spleen cancer,” she said.  “But we also have another…a human cancer this time.”  Her voice was monotone.  “Could be lethal.”

“Well…uh,” I stuttered slightly. “Who is it?”…(to be continued)