Adventures of Sasha’s Gang--Chapter Eight

 

Adventures of Sasha's Gang

Sleep was as difficult to come by as moon rocks that night. In between the constellation of aftershocks and a dog’s occasional potty break via the doggy door, the only place that both beast and man wanted to occupy that night was a urine-infused mattress buried beneath foothills of comforters and Afghans.  Ah, the Adventures of Sasha's Gang.  Warmth was the commodity of preference.  Take that Bitcoin!

And I needed to free my hand From Turquoise’s skull, if for no other reason than to give our respective nervous systems a temporary reprieve. While I enjoyed the exploration, it was laser intensive, rendering my batteries depleted following each episode.  It remained dark and frigid when wife and I awoke around five, the pile of canines stirring slowly, excavating themselves from the previous day’s chaos.  

I took that opportunity to further update spouse on the tell-all that Mama had shared with me.  Not only was Sasha’s Gang legal, they actually had an assigned EIN number for federal taxes and a King County business license and a bank account that was initially funded by Eisenhower’s benevolent owner, the lifer corporal radio operator.  While of sound mind and body, he was somehow convinced that Eisenhower (or ‘Ike’ as he preferred to call him) could communicate with him from an email account belonging to a person known as Mama Cass! And from that portal Sasha’s Gang could make online banking deposits and even pay corporate invoices and taxes.

“Wow,” Spouse marveled, pulling me closer for warmth. “This is unbelievable.”

“Hello?” came the familiar policewoman’s voice.  “Anyone home?”

“We’re still here,” my words volleyed from the darkness and leapt the wall.

“Got another prisoner for you,” she replied.  There was no bark. Just the scurrying of the dog’s nails on rubber.  “I’m calling her Skinny.  No collar or tags.”

“Be right there,” I answered, pulling on a jacket, eager to meet our newest customer.  To say the least, I was stunned.   it was not like any other dog I had ever seen!  Either an escapee from a refugee camp or an undernourished nudist colony that couldn’t afford a hairstylist, I fully appreciated the moniker of Skinny (or coming from my generation, we could have called her ‘Twiggy’). 

Since we showcased myriad breeds of dogs from around the globe in a coffee table book at our front desk, I soon determined that Skinny was a Chinese Crested, notorious for its unflattering pink nakedness, unshaven beard and spiky or ‘crested’ coiffure.  Though she resembled a divorced father of three with a hangover, apparently the breed was rumored to be ultra-affectionate and cuddly.  

“Oh my God…what is that?” Spouse froze as she rounded the corner.

“Found her down in the Marymoor dog park, close to the lake…just running loose…close to the burned motorhome. No ID,” the police officer responded.

“Happy to help,” I offered, though a bit dumbfounded by the unique breed. Still dark outside, her pink nakedness was nearly neon in contrast.

“That’s a dog?” Spouse asked bewildered, as Turquoise meandered into the room, making herself available to me.  Discreetly, I reached down and allowed my hand to gently touch upon her willing head without reacting to the magma which blissfully climbed through my arm.  No indication to Redmond’s finest that I had in my possession a supernatural canine.  And the tangle of morning dog voices echoed through my crawl space, making little sense in their conflicting orbits. 

“Oh my gosh!” exclaimed Bambi peeking around the gate from the big room. “I think it’s a darn ole’ cat.”

No comment one way or another from me until the law is gone.  Though I’m fairly confident it’s genus is Canis—wolf, dog, coyote or jackal—but in spite of his punk rocker appearance, he also appears to pack some canine DNA. 

“Better not be no dang cat,” Madden swore.  “We dogs here…hundred percent!”

“Even if a cat,” Mama lectured. “We are a safe haven for them.”

“Poppycock,” Madden replied.  “Our sign don’t say no ‘Cat Resort’.”

“Nor does it say ‘Dog Resort,’” Mama corrected.  “It says ‘Pet Resort’ and last time I looked…well, uh cats are pets.”

“Cats can’t swim,” Mark Spitz proclaimed, as if that signified a severe feline deficit. 

“Cats are smarter than dogs,” Socrates yawned.  “I mean you can’t get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.”

“Spot on,” Madden cheered. ”You can hang with me anytime, little buddy.”

“Well, best get back to saving escapees,” the policewoman announced, fully unaware of the canine discussion that just took place in front of her.  “If we find more, I’ll swing them by.”  A quick wave and she’s out the door.  Moderate aftershocks struck periodically while folks, some with dogs on leash, continued to circle the few businesses that had opened including latte stands and bagel kiosks…any with breakfast in their DNA.  The din outside had mellowed overnight to an inert static. But more helicopters, like jungle mosquitoes, took to the air as damage assessments in daylight continued by government, police and media.

“Listen up all,” Mama announced.  “Let’s be good neighbors and welcome…what you calling him?  Skinny?”

“My name is Ming,” the adoptee proclaimed with a regal air, as he sculpted his mane with rapid twitches of his droll head. “In house with wheels…and fire.  Don’t know where my people are.”

“Well, you’re welcome here.” Mama announced, as dawn cast slender shadows through Sasha’s unheated interior.

“Out of respect for the earthquake, this morning’s romp is canceled,” Mama said. “Today, let’s just stretch.”

There was a muted doggy moan, as the coterie lamented the cancellation of their regular morning exercise program.  A favorite.

“We must, must, must…develop our bust!” Bambi recited a high-school workout exercise as she pranced about in dainty circles.

“Is this a shelter?” Ming, the new dog asked, uncertain if there was life beyond a burning motor home.

“Temporarily,” I answered in dog-speak. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to find your folks.”

“If you’re not a cat!” Madden added. 

“Meow…” Ming teased, its naked flesh shivering in the cold. “Do I sound like a cat?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Mama reprimanded. “Are we dogs or are we people?”

“Dogs of course,” Madden replied.

“Then let’s act like it,” she replied.  “You’d think this was a room full of drunken politicians.”

I pondered a thousand witty rebuttals, but preferred to just ferment in the thoughts of my canine companions.  After all, listening in to this previously secret dialogue was a virgin experience!  I can rebut later!

“What’s going on?” Spouse wrapped herself in a comforter as we gathered back in the large daycare room. “Is Skinny staying with us?”

“Ming,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Ming is his name.”

“I do believe that Mark Twain said it best,” Socrates stretched and yawned before speaking.  “The more I learn about people, the more I like my dog.”

“Amen!” Madden and Spitz cheered in unison. 

“Guess he looks a bit like a Ming,” spouse teased.  “Or a highly schizophrenic Ewok.”  Ming made a face, as if his pedigree had been disrespected.

“See…you find the good in everything,” I mocked her, as the dogs lazily circled the community mattress.

“So, let’s assume our parents will not be coming to pick us up today…” Mama said calmly. “I see most of you have taken care of bathroom duties.  Now I guess it’s time for nourishment?”  She expectantly stared directly at me. 

“Coming right up!” I snapped to attention, with a slight fingers-to-forehead salute.  With that our dogs frenetically surged back towards the kitchen like a drooling tsunami and I took that as my opportunity to disconnect from Turquoise, give my arm a rest. It tingled pleasantly in the after-burn. Instantly it was cease-fire quiet in my head while I shoveled the brown kibbles into half a dozen aluminum bowls, the canines crowding like kids at the Saturday matinee.  Spouse watched, mildly amused.  She liked to watch me work with the dogs. “So what’s their plan,” she asked.

“Not sure it’s a plan per se for now,” I answered.  “Just get through today and sleep.  And wish for no more earthquakes. That’s what dogs do.”  I then detailed for her the Sasha’s Gang vision to find a cure for short dog lives.  As a medical professional she explained she was cynical, yet at the same time hopeful about their intent.  “That would be a Godsend…though it’s all pretty much a pipedream until it’s not.  Isn’t that the number one concern of most dog parents?  How they wish their pups could live to be 30 or more?”   

“Absolutely,” I answered, emotionally impacted by the loss of my own dogs over my lifetime.  A few still leak tears into my eyes.

“These dogs…their task is not for the feint of heart,” she continued. ‘Biological life expansion is at the heart of so much research and thousands of clinical studies…and well, it’s not always successful.  So many initiatives end up in ashes.  Can breed a lot of disappointment…unfulfilled expectations.”

“My…aren’t we becoming a philosophical guru.” I teased.

“Just being pragmatic…as surreal as all this is…well, just don’t want our dogs to become neurotic if they fail in this effort.”

“Amen!”  I seconded her nomination.  “Right there with you.”

“Need a hand!” the breathless policewoman spoke with urgency as she wrestled our squeaky front door open. “Got another stray…think he’s in bad shape.”

Wife and I hurried back out to the entrance where the policewoman and her partner carried what appeared to be a strange black bag, each struggling to hold up their end. “What is it?” I asked.

“Down by the lake…found him unconscious.”  As my eyes adjusted, I realized they were lugging a sizable ebony dog with curls and a dangling tongue.

“He’s still breathing,” her partner explained. “But not sure for how long.”

“Well…bring him in,” the RN in spouse took control since she was the closest thing to a vet that we had. “Lay him in here.”  Her head nodded towards the floor of our puppy/hospice room.  I hurriedly gathered a few blankets from our sleeping quarters and made the dog a ground gurney of sorts.

“His tag says ‘Lucky,’” spouse read the faded red aluminum piece as Lucky’s chest slowly expanded, paused, and then receded…and repeated the process again and again. “Get me some light please.” 

I retrieved a flashlight and as her wingman lit the areas of her work as she made her preliminary patient review—albeit a dog.  “Get me some gloves too if you will.”

Once gloved, she immediately started feeling around Lucky’s muzzle, then lifting his lips, and finally probing at his teeth and gums. 

“You think he ate something bad?” I asked in response to her oral exploration.

“No.  I mean not necessarily.  Just checking his gums for blood flow.  If chalky or whitish it might mean impaired blood flow somewhere.”  The police officers maintained their vigilance as Mama Cass led her gang, including a shivering Ming, who was compassionately helped into the silo of blankets by Bambi and Socrates. 

“So?” I asked.

“So…what do I look like...a vet?  Gums look healthy pink to me…as far as I know.  But I don’t usually examine my patients’ gums.”

“Let’s get him warm,” I urged.  “Who knows how long he’s been out in the cold.  And when possible, get him to drink some warm water or broth.”  Spouse agreed with a nod as the officers excused themselves.  “If we find more we’ll be back.”

“Or if you find their parents,” I reminded.

“Gotcha,” she shouted back.

“Looks like a labradoodle of some sort,” I speculated.  “And a big one at that.”  I estimated him to be bordering on eighty pounds, firm as brick and black as coal.  “Any ideas?”

“Many.  Maybe a mild stroke.  Exposure.  Infection. Any number of possibilities.  Just gotta get him awake first to better test.” 

“Let me get some more blankets on him,” I said as I gently laid a tri-colored Afghan crocheted by my grandmother on him. He squirmed a bit, as if making himself comfortable.  “Got a little fire in the hole.”

“Hey Lucky,” my wife gently rubbed his head, hybrid dog owner and nurse.  “We got you boy.  You just rest.  We’re gonna take good care of you.”

No sooner said than done, that Lucky migrated from shivering to convulsions, gagging as if he might throw up, whining as if in pain. Both wife and I searched the other’s face for answers as Lucky’s legs erratically shuffled as if attempting to stand but unable… (to be continued)