“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?” –Albus Dumbledore  

The Continuing Adventures of Sasha’s Gang

Chapter One

 

Turquoise is an eight-year-old Australian Shepherd. A beautiful and soft-as-cotton battleship gray, ivory and black spotted altered female. Smart as AI. A tsunami of genuine personality and life! And this is where it begins to get a bit quirky if you will, almost a little Twilight Zonish in nature. Turquoise, I am to learn, possesses the ability to translate the thoughts of other dogs and transmit them to humans! 

I wouldn’t ever had thought this a possibility until I placed my hand upon Turquoise’s back when she first followed me into Sasha’s the day after Thanksgiving.  Instantly, my body tensed, as a gentle creek of vibrating warmth rippled up my arm, tranquil and relaxing. And my mind swarmed like a beehive, stampeded by a garble of unfamiliar voices that filled my head, a manic CB radio! 

I immediately stepped back, urgently snatching my hand away as if it might be stolen or vandalized.  Now the only sounds were coming from our large daycare room where a howling contingent of our squaddies, skeptical of a newcomer that they had yet to sniff. They couldn’t see her over the wall of the daycare room, but they could certainly hear over it. (Look at these wall treatments)

 “What’s the matter?” My spouse, a most empathetic RN and part-time wrangler, asked at seeing my odd behavior.  “Static electricity?” 

For a moment, I hesitated, glancing down at Turquoise and trying to make sense of what had just happened. It was as if a hidden world of jabbering apparitions were rioting inside my head. I struggled to articulate it, feeling both astonished and slightly unnerved.

“I’m not sure,” I replied, truly bewildered. Turquoise looked up, surveying my face, her riveting azure eyes the genesis behind the nickname we eventually provided her. 

“And who do we have the pleasure of?” my wife queried, slim in a surgical smock from her early shift. “I think he’s enchanting.”

“She,” I corrected, squatting down to better assess gender, careful not to touch her private or public works.

“Goose or gander,” she twinkled.  “No matter.  He or she…whichever… will make an excellent playmate for both Maple and Mama Cass.”

Maple, a six-month-old Golden Doodle, appeared to presume her quest in life was to reign supreme in the high jump, practicing her leaping prowess on unsuspecting two-legged visitors--my wife’s surgical smock shielding her from Maple’s killer talons.  

 

Meanwhile, a five-year-old Rottweiler nicknamed Mama Cass, resembling a third-world terrorist in her short-haired brown and black ensemble—was Sasha’s original matriarch. Gentle as a butterfly, she was an extremely effective peacemaker, once towering over a riotous tangle of two dogs who were in an atrocious fight, threatening at minimum to draw blood.  Or worse, lacerate flesh, requiring a pricey vet visit and sutures.  Yet, when the two warriors glanced up to see the massive Mama’s undercarriage standing over them, they were startled, immediately ceasing their paw-to-paw combat, at which point mediator Mama retreated while the two ruffians slinked back to their respective corners. 

Later in the day when the same two dogs started to lob stink eyes at each other, Mama just casually sauntered in between the two of them, peacefully and without malice--neither willing to challenge her.  They both prudently decided to nap instead.

During her third year at Sasha’s, Mama spent many of her days at home tending to a brood of kittens who had lost their mother.  Hence, her moniker, Mama Cass.  While all our dogs possess owner-provided names, we much prefer to nickname them with handles humorously appropriate to their respective personalities and physical appearance.  And the canines didn’t seem to mind an inch.

At that moment, Mama Cass casually strolled through the double-glass front doors paying scant notice to spouse and I.  Instead, she immediately proceeded to sniff the new dog on the block, Turquoise, who daintily pranced her butt away from Mama’s inquisitive wet snout--her bucket list not including a canine proctology exam.

“Where’d she come from?” spouse asked.

“I was walking back from town…needed exercise after all that pumpkin pie last night…and I think somewhere near the Denny’s, uh… she started following me.”

“Name?” Spouse speaks with RN-pinpoint precision.  No extraneous words.  Empathetic, but not saccharin.

“No tags,” I explained.  “And she’s not chipped.”  Our chip reader located no blips in Turquoise’s furry alabaster neck. {How about a good leash instead?)

“So what are you thinking? Spouse quizzed. “That she’s going to stay here?”  There was a hint of “this might be a bad idea” in her voice. 

“Well, I guess,” I fumbled momentarily, still dumbfounded by the bizarre but gentle arm massage and the cacophony of voices stampeding throughout my skull.  Confused and maybe a little frightened.   “I mean it’s already past six.  And she looks hungry. And it’s dark and cold outside.”

“No sweetheart. I think you’re absolutely right.  But we can’t just call her dog, can we?”

I smiled faintly, not willing to detour this conversation by mentioning the anomalous intersection of touch and sound. Perhaps even supernatural.

“I think she named herself,” I said, as I crouched down and better examined her angelic face without touching.  “With eyes that mesmerizing and sky blue…No contest.  Turquoise.”

Spouse clapped her hands with delight.  “Spot on,” she smiled while gently nodding her head. “I love it!”  She paused.  Annoyed.  “Guys…quiet!” she barked at the lynch mob sequestered on the other side of the wall.  

Fortunately, spouse is highly allergic to many breeds of dogs, so while Turquoise is cuter than a bug’s ear, her endearing fluff nearly mandating a hug, she would probably resist a wrestle with this intelligent bundle of fur.  At least for a few days.  And maybe in that time, I can figure out the genesis behind this insanity. 

“What the hell...” I started, the second insane moment of my day. Within seconds I felt it...even through the thick insulation of the rubber flooring. (Black rubber flooring for Dogs) A slight tremble soon followed by the roaring indigestion of an angry earth. 

“What is it? Spouse’s head twirled about owl-like, eyes wide open. She lifted off the wicker couch, shared with Mama Cass —while the night wrangler, paralyzed, uttered not a single word, standing still in the moment.

Peering upward through the dusk of the two-story ceiling, the recessed light bulbs bounced epileptic, blinking erratically, as Sasha’s threatened darkness. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Turquoise curled up about my feet as the trembling became more pronounced, physically threatening. A commotion with more hamstring than just a passing truck or the rumbling to life of an ancient oil furnace.

Frantically, I reached downward for stability, my balance a few degrees out of plumb, as my hand alighted upon a bobbed tail, a cul-de-sac of fur!  Though with neither nudge nor sigh, I still knew it had to be Turquoise as the euphoric flow reignited, lava flowing upward in my arm, stirring a narcotic calm deep inside me. But none of the cacophony which haunted me earlier that day. It was eerily quiet other than for the faint crackle of white noise and the bewildered stirring of our collective breathing, human and dogs panting in frightened unison. No longer barking!

“Earth....quake...” I stuttered, as the lights succumbed to ebony, the ground’s movement accelerating, this terrestrial tsunami washing over us.

“Dan?” Spouse’s voice was diminished, apparently throttled by a sudden tightening of her throat.

Meanwhile, our little amusement ride had escalated into a cheap vertigo-inducing roller coaster without lights. I didn’t know which way was up and which was down. Nor did it matter. I was experiencing an out-of-body astral jet ride that was pulling about seven G’s. No reverse or fast forward. Just a moment stuck in time without parole or pardon. Maybe vomit.

“Just ride it...out,” I continued. “We’re safe here.” I said so...but didn’t necessarily know so. Sasha’s was constructed using massive 6-inch by 12-inch cedar beams...and maybe 20 feet in length, any one of which could decapitate or kill (most likely both) if it suddenly dislodged from the upper reaches. Arms over my head weren’t shelter. They were simply obese jay walkers with fat armpits, vulnerable targets, as this bucking bronco sped through the intersection, without a brake light of mercy or defensive driving.

 

The Continuing Adventures of Sasha’s Gang

Chapter Two

“Stop…pleas…se.  Stop!” were the only syllables the night manager could extract from her trembling dentures, never having experienced a tremor before in her life. Surprising since she spent three decades of that life in wriggly California--the epicenter of earthquakes!

I detected only slight movement from the dogs, their faint outlines motionless as they surfed the whitecaps of the new moon which reflected off Sasha’s wheat-colored walls and crimson steel roof.

Out of nowhere, a molar-rattling blast erupted!  I reasoned it originated in the registration area of the ground floor—though it reverberations were disfiguring, a gaudy and brassy explosion that could have been birthed from any corner of the building.  A snarly man’s voice took to the air--both terrifying and boisterous, outshouting the quake’s growl. “…a blue Christmas…without you…”.

“Please…” the night manager xeroxed her panicked plea, as the voice didn’t so much rattle and roll as it liquified Alexa’s gonads.  I recognized the distorted voice as that of the King, in his best holiday spirit.  Alexa on a rampage, likely triggered by the earth’s uncontrolled salsa. But I could have been wrong.  Nothing seemed to be what it appeared. For all I knew it was a demon clad in blue suede shoes, a snow-white jumpsuit and a low-hanging guitar. 

 

“Dan!?” Spouse shouted out for a second time. Yet, the shaking intensified. You’d have thought that we’d put out a welcome mat for Jehovah’s Witnesses! 

“Hang in…hon,” I hollered over the ruckus. Turquoise, seemingly unruffled, was tethered at my feet, my hand now traveled to the top of her fluffy head.  I could hear the collective blaring of car alarms…and see the branches of our leafless maple tree adjacent our large window induced into a subtle blur of a charcoal sketch--or my eyes had suddenly gone sour.  And the gyrating streetlights flickered before shutting down like illicit cigarettes in the boys’ room.

Meanwhile, the ascent up my arm continued unabated, though I was certain the sherpa amperage powering this offbeat trek would cripple poor Turquoise, tripping a breaker or something equally debilitating. But no, she remained steadfast, unfazed, on the cusp of meditative. No trembling or apparent stress. An extraordinary canine indeed. 

While Elvis continued his holiday crooning at damaging decibel levels--further fueling the pandemonium that had taken possession of Sasha’s— Turquoise remained calm, in full control.

I didn’t know how long we’d been rocking and rolling.  Fifteen seconds?  Or fifty? I was fairly certain it was nowhere near four and one-half minutes, the duration of Anchorage’s Good Friday quake in ’64!  For me time had ceased to exist, at least as I knew it in its primal form.  Altogether a different epicenter when filtered through near total darkness and one’s transient foothold on a convulsing mother earth.  I surfed the rubber floor, my knees flexing and unwinding as if navigating a mogul field.

There wasn’t a single utterance from the dogs, Mama Cass and Turquoise included.  Just the roar of the earth and the grind of Elvis’s hips.  I didn’t know if I was going to fall, vomit or both.  But with the stealth of a midnight bandit, the quake suddenly disappeared riding upon a vanishing curtain of silence--other than for the multitude of car alarms and the nearly indecipherable slosh of water in the dogs’ closed bowls.  Even Elvis had left the building.

Still, my arm reverberated with Turquoise’s inexplicable sway, a tangle of voices cross-breeding themselves out of existence, leaving in their wake a faded (and I might add pleasurable) white noise.

“Dan!” Spouse shouted again.

“I’m good,” As non-chalantly as my quivering voice would allow.  “Earthquake,” I added, and smiled for no reason, though it couldn’t be seen. 

“You think?” Spouse’s sarcasm had survived her pummeling.

“Oh my God!” the night manager exclaimed, her brunette wig askew, as she hurriedly nudged it back into place.

“It’s okay,” I assured the room.  I had not heard any glass breaking, which supported my theory that the quake might have been (at maximum) in the six point something range.  Not likely any stronger than that. Maybe a few deaths. Power probably out for a few days, outlying areas for a few weeks. I was breathing easier.  This could have been so much worse. As I turned to head for a flashlight in our reception area, a voice magically took to the air.  Or so I assumed.   

“Hi Dan,” It was a soft reassuring female voice.  Strangely both alien and familiar in the same breath.

“Who’s that?”  I assumed a neighbor had hurried over to check on us.

“Just us,” Spouse replied in the dark. “We need to make sure the gas is turned off.” Her stint as a first-responder RN emerged.  She was spot on.

“I miss you dearly,” the voice, light as mist, soothed me, though I didn’t know its origin nor the genesis of its magical poultice.

“Who are you?” I blurted aloud.

“Who’s who?” Spouse questioned, caution slackening her words.

Apparently, neither spouse nor night manager had heard the gravity of the siren call—one which was tantalizing and beckoning me towards…I don’t know where.  I was stumped.  Towards where I had no clue. But it felt like such a warmer, softer place. 

“It’s me.  Sasha.  Love you guys…”

I ceased breathing. This was my girl who had also ceased breathing--but five years earlier, as we frantically sped down to the animal ER in Redmond! But far too late, her lips and tongue a deadly shade of blue as she struggled to stand.  And for ‘reals’ as I explained to our daughter. 

Spouse--a hopeful spirit and early advocate for reincarnation—emboldened an overactive imagination that possibly could have instilled more life into our girl, Sasha. But that didn’t appear to be the case as spouse mumbled, digging out from the spider silk of a bewildered yawn.  “Bill Haley,” she made no mention of Sasha’s words. Just the holiday flotsam of a dying King.

“Huh?” My confusion was Darwinism in action.  Evolving from pedestrian chatter to a Twilight Zone script in a single breath.

“Wasn’t him,” Spouse’s words drifted through the dark, the earth tranquil in this momentary respite.  “Bill Haley and the Comets…was a cover.”

Reluctantly, I unplugged from Turquoise, as I heard the faint scratch of dog talons coming to life on the rubber floor. And then I saw it across the room!  An extremely faint, nearly translucent glacial-tinted outline of a dog.  But it shed no illumination upon the others…

 

The Continuing Adventures of Sasha’s Gang

Chapter Three

With aching bones of timber, Sasha the building issued a faint sigh of survival while blinking alarm strobes punctuated the darkened windows of the condos across the street.  Home burglar systems now dueled for airtime with the car alarms and emergency generators that automatically came to life.

“Just hold on guys,” I shouted to be heard, reluctantly letting loose of my hold on Turquoise.  “Let me grab a flashlight.”  It felt colder, the lava flow in my artery instantly extinguished (or vein…after all I’m not a phlebotomist). No longer was I nurtured by the calming sea noise or soothed by the translucent voice and countenance of my ghostly girl, Sasha.

I followed Alexa’s orbiting blue/green light to our reception area, though it shouldn’t have been functioning with the power out. I blindly groped my way to our junk drawer which included a tiny steel flashlight with a heart of fusion.  I grabbed it as a collective of blood-curdling howls were incited by the agonizing blare of Redmond fire engine number 16 as it turned our corner. The police, already on the road when the quake hit, were but seconds behind.  Our post-quake silence erupted into pandemonium, barely able to hear myself talk or think, lightly stumbling. 

"Dan?" Spouse hollered.       

"Stay where you are,” I urged.

“Toilets working?” The strain in her voice made it an obviously personal and immediate query.

I imagined so.  Porcelain doesn’t require electricity.  “Think so.”  I shined the flashlight on the howling pack.  No apparent injuries, though a hands-on blood search would still be required.  Especially on the longer-hair dogs where wounds could easily hide. But didn’t appear that anything harmful had fallen from our second story, though blood on a black rubber floor would be near to invisible.  

Mama, calmly laying on the rubber floor as if just another day at the beach, was encircled by the chorus of Sasha’s gang including big black John Madden and white water-lover, Mark Spitz.  Typically, in minor earthquakes such as this (everything is relative), the water continues to flow, though it may require boiling before use.  Again, I sensed we were blessed.  This was not the ‘big’ 1000-year earthquake that many doomsday proctologists liked to dangle in front of the populace like a ravaged sphincter muscle.

Turquoise, placid and demur, remained seated adjacent Mama.  Her mesmerizing neon eyes seemingly lending a bluish tint to the room.  Meanwhile, I fired up some Christmas candle decorations, ghosts of Christmas present bouncing off our mural walls.  Both spooky and warm.

But it was the continued commotion outside that captivated our notice.  At nearly six o’clock in the evening and without a spark of electricity, all would need to figure out how to stay warm for the night (lots of comforters and quilts) and at the same time remain vigilant to potential aftershocks. I learned later the trick was to hang a belt from the ceiling, so one could verify if it was another terrestrial hiccup or just an over-fearful imagination.

The night manager continued to pray under her breath, which would soon be visible in the chill. I encouraged her to head to home on the plateau to prepare it for the night.  Spouse and I could handle the duties at Sasha’s and having lost our three dogs at home over the past few years, our home up in the hinterlands was likely safe, even from looters.

“What are we going to do?” Spouse lightly wept, her mascara running.

“Just what we’re doing,” I encouraged.  Though there was no functioning internet detailing the severity of our situation and the only radios were in our vehicles, which we yet had time or reason to fire up. Beyond the swirling emergency lights, I also detected the faint sunset of flames somewhere further down the road towards Marymoor Park and the taint of smoke, hence the fire trucks.  As the dogs’ howls slowed to a simmer and they sniffed at the floor and each other, a few pedestrians, a bit dazed and disoriented, wandered by our drive, apparently more for the sightseeing than anything functional.

“Did you, uh…know…I mean see or hear anything unusual?” I asked her.

“Yeah…a damned earthquake,” she responded sarcastically.  “Hold that thought.”  She snatched one of the candles and hurried towards the downstairs bathroom (though not a bath to be found). Atop everything, I heard a helicopter buzzing overhead; likely a police chopper or television crew. 

“It even flushed!” Spouse spoke enthusiastically upon her return.   Strange how little things become so monumental sometimes. But then horror of horrors, I heard the undeniable sound of water!  Not a tsunami.  We were miles from salt water.  The only body of water nearby was five blocks away in the multi-miles-long Lake Sammamish.  Fresh water and likely not to make a stink over a tremor many miles out to sea. But it sounded closer, as if even in the room with us!  (Next time we'll warm the water for you!) Did something go afoul when spouse flushed the toilet?  Maybe a pipe broken upstairs?  Perhaps I celebrated our unscathed nature far too soon or too loud?  God doesn’t encourage pride or much in the way of festival.

“Mister Mark Spitz!”  Spouse solved the dilemma far quicker than I as she peered in the direction of the water spill. Pointing my flashlight similarly, I illuminated Spitz’s mountain-lion-like paws slapping at the five-gallon water bowl like a hungry bear swatting spawning salmon 

“Water is life,” Socrates adds succinctly..

“You get outta that water right this second!” Spouse snarled as Spitz backpedaled a few inches, though not abandoning his watery preoccupation. It held his rapt attention, as he continued to pound it out of his bowl in a golden retriever frenetic frolic, saturating the floor as well as himself.  He was having a ball!  What earthquake?

The other dogs watched, seemingly bemused while the outdoors had been transformed into a sound riot, electronic reverberations of nearly every persuasion coloring the night air, feeling almost carnival-like except for the lethal fauna of the sirens.  And no popcorn or balloons!

“I turned off the gas,” spouse said, the shutoff near the restroom.  (We have an LG commercial gas dryer)  I took a seat, on the wicker couch, needing a moment of reflection as spouse sidled up next to me.  An admonished Spitz required his reservoir to be refilled if he was going to continue his chicanery, so he took a break.

“You folks okay?” A police officer popped her head through the front door, momentarily startling us.

“All good,” I shouted. “Thanks for checking.”  Turquoise quite calmly laid down beside my feet. 

“We got ourselves a little fire down in Marymoor,” she retorted.  “But nothing that should affect ya all up here.  We’re around if you need anything.”  With that she departed before quickly sticking her head back inside.  “Oh…If we do find some strays uh…can ya all help us with them?”

“No problem,” I replied.  “Just tap on the door if we’re asleep.” Though I suspected slumber was going to be as precious as hen’s teeth this night.

“Thanks.”  And off again.

“So poopsie…” Spouse started.  “Did you say you were hearing…like I don’t know…noises or voices?”  While it was spouse’s term of endearment for me, it reminded me of a fecal examination. 

“So you didn’t hear anything?” I asked anxiously.  “Or see anything?”

“Just an earthquake…and Bill Hailey,” she said, drawing a thick green sweater tight about her torso, the air chilling. “What is going on?”  She asked, frustrated by the fog of confusion. 

“I realize this is going to sound all woo-woo,” I started down the path of the inexplicable.  This was indeed going to be a slippery slope.  Once a whisker escapes the bag, the rest of the feline demands freedom as well.  “This dog?” I posed, looking down at Turquoise who appeared content and satiated--and maybe even sleeping.  “No other way to say it.  But…uh…she is…uh. well…superna…tural.”  I stumbled over my own words.

Spouse didn’t laugh, but rather tendered one of those non-committal Mona Lisa smiles.  Without opinion, agnostic in nature.  Neither positive nor negative.  “Supernatural?” she repeats with a hint of cynicism. “Clairvoyant?”

“Perhaps,” I volunteered, but all was so ambiguous. “Just some strange things happen when I touch her.”

“Okay?” It was more of a question, than a comment.

“Would you be willing to pet her?” I asked, hungering for a shred of credibility. 

“Pet her? Well of course!” She answered in a fashion that could be conservatively interpreted as discrediting.  Without further ado, spouse leaned over and softly ran her fingers through the scruff of Turquoise’s neck, who then emitted a dog’s hushed purr while I clenched my teeth in anticipation of the pending explosion.

I expected some sort of yelp or screech from either the dog or spouse but neither materialized.  “She is so soft!” That was comparable to pilfering the climax from a blockbuster movie. There had to be some pinnacle of emotion, some fireworks! But nothing. Only the scurrying of frightened earthquake victims.

“You didn’t feel anything?” I asked, my angst billowing like a full spinnaker.

“I’m sorry,” she sensed my discontent.  “But no…nothing….what am I s’pose to feel?

How does one go about telling their wife they've abandoned their senses?

“I know, well…this is…all, well just beyond belief.”  I could think of no words which aptly captured the insanity of this day. None. Except one.  “Sasha,” I whispered under my breath.  The dogs were quietly attentive as if making note of the conversation.

Spouse turned abruptly, having missed Sasha something terrible even though her rear view was six years and beyond. “Why’d you say Sasha?”  Even in the dim candlelight, I saw the diamond-trickle in her eyes.  Sasha’s exit, much like tonight’s earthquake, had stuck abruptly and without warning.  Here one instant and gone forever in the next.

“Maybe I’m losing it,” I anxiously proffered, my breathing restrained by the acoustical straight jacket outside our walls.

Spouse warmly took my hand in hers, still moist from wiping her eyes and a generous nurse smile.  “But what…I mean about Sasha?"

She tried to reach inside me and osmotically extract my words.

“Just watch this…” I said earnestly, surrendering to a moment as inexplicable as quicksand, my forehead damp and stomach on a romp.  Holding out the candle, careful to not set her ablaze, it faintly illuminated Turquoise, who had dozed at my feet. She blinked reluctantly, coming awake, gazing into the candlelight as if it were an invading UFO.

With my other hand I slowly drew close to her snout as she sniffed for clues. The instant I reached the top of her head, the sedative swirl of narcotics spirited back up my arm like a hypo from God.  Every muscle in my body flaccid as summer phone wires.  But there were no multiple voices as I heard earlier—just a singular soothing female voice.

“Thank you for welcome.”  Her words were extremely audible and stereophonic, even with my inefficient old man hearing.  I didn’t know where the words homesteaded.  In my head, bones or soul?  Just pleasant and surrounding and female. 

“You hear that?” I asked spouse excitedly, certain this couldn’t be denied.

“I heard nothing,” she answered, glumly, wanting to be supportive. “I’m sorry, babe”

I continued my hold on Turquoise, reminding me of high school and all those times I fell in love—which could be challenging when one drove a ’59 Ford Falcon as their muscle car!  But this felt very much like those initial pangs of adoration.  And I worshipped the sensation.

“You’re welcome,” I said tenderly, uncertain whether those were just my thoughts or had I actually verbalized them?  I glanced at spouse whose unaltered countenance spoke volumes.  She had heard nothing.  Perhaps I had said nothing…(To be continued).

 

 

The Continuing Adventures of Sasha’s Gang

Chapter Four

“So now what?” Spouse asked, a dim gloom backlighting her words, as she layered a hoodie over her sweater.  All as I hypnotically studied the nearly motionless Turquoise, still resting at my feet.  Tenuous as 220 volts, but appearing harmless as a butterfly, she didn’t seem the least bit unsettled. 

Meanwhile the other dogs wandered about, investigating the odiferous big dog roller-derby room with twitching noses.  It led outdoors via our doggy door to a miniscule but proficiently fenced green space, essential for time-efficient potty breaks.  The dogs loved it.  Some would even go out during a rainstorm and just sit.  As if taking a warm shower—though it was perpetually cold, even in August.

“It’s gonna be a frigid one tonight,” I warned.  “Maybe best we figure out where we’re all sleeping and how we’re gonna keep warm.” 

“A seven-dog night by my count.” Spouse said playfully, tenderly squeezing my thigh. “And instead of how we gonna keep warm…well, how about how we gonna get warm?”

“I hear you,” I joked, turning the table.   “But not tonight…I’ve a bit of a headache.”   

“Ha ha…” She kidded as she squeezed my thigh a bit harder, with a hybrid  joyful-sinister smile.  There was an old foam mattress packed away upstairs which had once been victim to myriad urine episodes and justifiably retired.  But could fill in during a pinch with a cladding of sheets to shield us from the bouquet and a clutch of Costco blankets to warm us.  And yes, plenty of heated air from seven snoring boarders, plus spouse and I.

Yet, my mind continued performing calisthenics over the sleight-of-paw sorcery created by the furry talisman at my feet.  How do I rationalize and accept all I experienced as existent and real? Feels as if I’ve taken a role in the Wizard of Oz as a flying monkey.  

Maybe this kaleidoscope day was all just a long overdue tie-dye hangover?  I freely admit I was a bit of a free spirit during the late-60s pursuing my new-age explorations. But that was many decades ago and haven’t had a flashback to this day!

But if even so, so what?  I’m engulfed by a dominion without visa, no possible validation of my own ears and eyes—or me!  Isolated.  Just one against the world.  A perilous position at best.  Who is going to believe my tale of a supernatural dog?

Suddenly, I felt it!  Just a tiny bump.  With the faint knock of a wind-blown branch, yet the abruptness of a sledgehammer—in its wake the faint creak of the building and momentary dizziness.  The rippled flow of candlelight splashed across our muraled wall. You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind is blowing and I certainly didn’t need a dangling belt to know whether this was a genuine tremor.

“An aftershock.” As if explanation was necessary.  The dogs’ collective howl said it all.  Mother earth was doing her Pilates again. And then she immediately stalked off in a quiet huff.

“I figured as much,” Spouse said tolerantly.  “Hon…uh, I’m just so sorry I didn’t hear anything.  I really wanted to.” Her other arm landed maternally on my shoulder.

“I know you did,” I replied, in a cul-de-sac of confusion.  My prison for the night, if not longer.  “So make up our bed?”

“Sure poopsie,” she replied, starting to rise. “Your phone working?”

“Nah. Didn’t expect it would be” I paused.  “But before we do that, think I should wake this girl up.” I glanced down at Turquoise who appeared unruffled by life.  Her radiant eyes were peacefully clouded, while her breathing was slow and rhythmic as the tide. 

“Maybe you should just let her rest,” Spouse urged.  “She could be tapped out.  I can see you are.”  She leveraged nurse dominance for which I didn’t have a matching sheep skin.  So as often was the case, I punted.  Nonetheless I still had this burning desire to understand more about what was happening with Turquoise. I felt a bit like a kid on Christmas morning who found his long-awaited chemistry set beneath the tree and then wasn’t allowed to blow things up!  But surrendering to spouse’s persuasion, I quietly separated  from Turquoise, while the other dogs, seven of our regulars, pranced about in their earthquake trots.  

We immediately crafted our sleeping quarters for the night, a king-size foam mattress with urine memories in the center of our roller-derby daycare room where the suspicious pack continued to sniff for terrestrial interlopers.  And we draped every sheet and quilt stored in our closets to create a textile pig-pile for both human and sherpa beasts to ascend.  It was already 34 degrees and dropping. No functioning furnace.  Just our collective breath and flatulence

“I’m freezing,” spouse declared as all began to sniff the community bedstead for their spot, a few argumentative growls along the way.

“Everyone, cool itI” I bellowed, agitated.   “Let’s play nice.  And knock off any farting!” 

“You don’t need to shout,” spouse reprimanded all, though her directive specifically targeted me. “Inside voices.”  And all seemed to recognize that space in the newfound bed was at a premium, thus their prowl as frenetic as an at-sea search and rescue.

“Hello?”  It was the Redmond female officer again.  “Just a quick update.  First off, the park fire was uh…an old motorhome someone was living in.” I could see her foggy breath at our entrance.  “Quake was 6.4 about 30 miles beneath Olympia In the Juan de Fuca plate.”

My knee-jerk prognosis earlier was relatively spot on.  Think this quake’s location was similar to the Nisqually earthquake which struck in 2001 and killed a few people. Again, definitely not the big one.

“Any strays?” I asked.

“None yet…but sure we’ll likely get some before the nights over.”

“We’re camped out downstairs here.  Just bring ‘em over,’ I said.

“Will do,” she said, departing again.  “Thanks.”

Mama Cass took her spot at the center of the mattress as the other pups demonstrated their deference allowing her to settle comfortably before ploughing their way beneath the blankets like famished snowplows.  Spouse snuggled up to me and the warming mound of dog fur as the candles continued to flicker.  I could feel that initial flow of biological heat, which was encouraging.  At the same time, I spied Turquoise as she wandered towards us, slowly, purposely.  What was her intent?    

“She’s coming over,” I whispered.  Though I wasn’t necessarily awaiting permission, I would however honor a spouse-nurse veto.  Her judgment usually reigned true more often than not. 

“At her pace please.” She too spoke in a whisper. 

“Yes, m’aam.”  I was schooled in the art of deference. “But…” I started as Turquoise sidled up to me, her snout but inches from my face, her warm exhale unusually pleasant for a dog.  

“Guess she really likes you,” spouse mused aloud.

Without intent, my hand mysteriously touched upon her head with the very same pomp and circumstance as earlier: the calming flow of lava up my arm and the cacophony of multiple voices sprinting down the auditory nerves and taking my brainstem hostage.  Not that this clarified the message, if there was one. It all came to me garbled and without any translation or curator.

“You okay?” Spouse asked, feeling my entire body tense.

“Think so…uh, but it’s happenin’ again.”

“Voices?”

“Everything,” I answered.  “Voices.  My arm again. Not sure what…”

“I honor your welcome.” It was the same voice that came to me earlier.  Calm, clear, inviting and female. 

“Who are you?” I said aloud. 

“You hearin’ it again?” Spouse asked with concern, while the dogs continued to settle in with gentle but persistent nudges.  Playing nice.

“You didn’t?” I hoped for a turnaround.

“Sorry love…no.”

“Where you from?” I queried aloud.

“Across the water,” she responded, calmly and matter-of-factly.

“Water?  What damned water?” My patience frayed.  I could only think of Mark Spitz who had tried earlier to frothfully divide Sasha’s Red Sea. 

“The waters of faith,” she responded serenely.

Now this was evolving into a gospel meeting for which my patience had little occupancy for.   

“And what’s that s’pose to mean?”  I restrained my angst best I could.  But it had been a genuinely trying day. 

“You okay?’ Spouse asked, feeling the tremble of my anger that not even the lava flow could contain.  I simply shook my head ‘no’ in mini-twitches.

“They send me,” she said softly.  “You say me Turquoise.  They say me empathy.”

My face unraveled into a fishing tangle of misery.  Enigmatically knotted and surreal. What was that supposed to mean?  I started to respond verbally…but was stopped.

“Need no words. I hear person direct.”

“You mean…”

“Yes,” she answered my question before it was even asked…(to be continued)

 

The Continuing Adventures of Sasha’s Gang

Chapter Five

“I hear brain.”  Her declaration startled me, throttling back my breathing. 

“I think she just said that she can hear my thoughts.” I mused quietly, eyes squinted as I tried to better focus, maintaining my gentle hold on her head. 

“Dan?”  She seldom called me that unless it was time for a serious heart-to-heart--which I wasn’t terribly proficient at—on a good day maybe scoring a D+. 

“Yes Hon?”

She paused.  “Are we going to feed these hounds at all tonight?”  She asked with RN punctuality; I had totally forgotten, having eclipsed their feeding time by at least a few hours.  Or maybe the quake had mysteriously satiated their hunger pangs.  But to the contrary, maybe they heard spouse using the word feed, one of the essential bi-species keywords in canine lexicon, their drooling response Pavlovian in nature.  I suspect dog DNA may come standard with it. And though we strive to feed dogs separately at Sasha’s, that’s not possible this fractured night.

“My bad,” I confessed. “In all the insanity…slipped my mind.”  I turned back to our ruffled bedstead of wagging tails and with a calm monotone voice, explained to both the pups and spouse how supper was being served.  “Better than the Edmunds Fitzgerald.” I jested. “I can feed ya’ all but it’s gonna be a group grope!” 

And with that I disengaged from Turquoise and raced the chill to the kitchen where I rapidly, and without elegance, poured half a 40-pound bag of salmon/rice dog food into half a dozen silver feed bowls and then hurriedly topped off their water bowls as well. (Or use an automatic water bowl)  A couple of the dogs had followed me to the dog kitchen and were grazing as I rushed back to our makeshift boudoir where I tunneled into our flannel igloo. The temperature had dropped like flying turkeys (“As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly". WKRP).

Most of the dogs had death-raced to the kitchen once they heard the telltale kittle-ballast pinging the feed bowls.  Once I was ensconced back in my blankets, spouse having kept my space warm, I saw that three remained. Turquoise, Mama Cass and Socrates apparently had a greater appetite for heat and sleep than they did for food at the moment.

First-cousin to a cuddly bear cub, Socrates approaches life much like a self-contained motorhome.  Very compact, self sufficient and subtly arrogant but more for the purpose of being left alone rather than feigning superiority.  A coal-black Chow Chow, Socrates is soft as cotton but her first half year of life was simply a brazen act of survival in a shelter scarce on both protection and love.  Hence, her defensive dance with life. She ignores most folks and dogs, but if she chooses to become your friend (and it will be her choice), she is that for life.  As often is the case, Socrates sequesters herself alone on the far side of our California King foam mattress and is contently dozing.

Mama Cass fidgets a bit, maintaining her sizable homestead in the middle of the foam urine bed.  Amongst the brightest of Sasha’s dogs--and with the hovering and inquisitive mind of a loving mother--she appears content to quietly contemplate the bizarre events of this day. 

Usually headed home with her owners most evenings after daycare, Mama will pillow down tonight at Sasha’s since the roads are blackened by missing stoplights and overrun by emergency vehicles--an absolute circus outside. 

It seemed odd, myriad helicopters overhead.  But why?  There are no lights anywhere, but for a tepid sliver of moon?  So there’s nothing to see.  It’s nighttime.  When people and pups snooze.  Save the avionic fuel. 

“You doing okay?” Spouse asks, her concern cornered by the flickering candlelight.  “It’s all so, so, uh…”. Words were elusive.

“Nuts,” is the only noun-adjective that came to my mind. 

Then of course there’s enchantress Turquoise.  Still fluffed and snoozing between spouse and myself.  From my brief experience, appears the magic—or whatever it is—is only activated when I touch her head with my hand.  She is lying horizontal to my leg and there’s no similar effect. While spouse’s touch was compassionate, it was not imbued with the magic.  No sedatives sprinting up her arms. No voices singing background.

“Anything I can do?” Spouse asks, planting a kiss on the tip of my nose.

“As you always do,” I teased.  “Sexualize me.”

“And what’s your second…more plausible wish?” She smiled as the other dogs--Hoss, Mark Spitz, Eisenhower and Bambi—slowly rejoined our pig pile after chowing down.  “Because that ain’t happening…at least not tonight, poopsie.”  That was the gospel I already knew, but still worth the ask.  It’s called marriage.

And then it struck!  At first I reckoned it was yet another tremor, but then realized what I was feeling instead was another Turquoise moment. The narcotic buzz of my arm as my hand unknowingly settled upon her furry crown and the subtle white noise. But the room wasn’t trembling.  

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath.  Spouse sensed my change in attitude, my body stiff as winter taffy.

“Again?” she asked.  I just quietly nodded, words useless as urinals in the pantry.

“I am friend.”  Turquoise’s voice was radiant and translucent, crocheted from angel wings. Her neon eyes cast a bluish tint across her adoring face.  “I’m for to wake.”

“She’s here for to wake…whatever that means,” I whispered.

“To better your world to know,” she added.

“Knowing our world better…I think.”

Spouse didn’t so much roll her eyes as simply blinked them repeatedly, as if lost in the forest.  Meanwhile the dogs focused on me, seven pairs of blood-shot alabaster eyeballs punctuating the darkness like falling stars. Studying my every move.

“We finally talk.” It’s not Turquoise’s voice.  Rougher around the edges like a newly dug grave, multiple octaves lower, yet definitely female. My sixth sense told me I was listening to Mama Cass who apparently intercepted my thoughts like an overzealous Seahawks defender, Richard Sherman,

Again, rapid as AI, she spoke as if sprinting seconds ahead of her thinking. “The one who crosses the water carries this blessing.”

Then a vulgar rip of the air, as one of the dogs thunder-farted, even penetrating the inhibiting muffler of blankets.  But its odiferous nature made a prison break and the escapees immediately fill the room.

“What the he..” spouse sputtered waving away the air in front of her face. 

“Hoss,” Mama Cass scolded. “Really?” 

“It’s Hoss,” I draw closer to spouse, attempting to divert the nefarious jet stream.

“Not say it coming,” Hoss, the Great Pyrenees, spoke.  His glimmering white coat and well-nourished girth (morning treat is a hard-boiled egg that seasons his flatulence as well) resembles a polar bear.  Enormous, relatively slow, and a bit of a bully.  Instead of dog fights, he is more of a Suma wrestler using his cumbersome size to his advantage. Seldom drawing blood and instead leaving bruises. But usually no bad feelings.

There is little time or credibility to explain how I know the name of the canine-skunk. Or any of the other speakers in my head.  It just seems to come naturally to me.  In 17^th century Salem I would have likely been burnt at the stake.  Another reason for remaining mute.

“A happy fart never comes from a miserable ass,” Socrates provides her scatological philosophy on the matter before bowing her head again in sleep. 

“True dat,” Mama concurs.  “But please. No more happy farts.”

“That was a happy fart,” I whisper in spouse’s ear. 

 “Don’t smell happy,” spouse casts doubt my direction.

I’ve already decided I’m unable to subtitle the wisdom and parables of Sasha’s gang in real time, so my best will be to provide periodic summations to my wife. That’ll have to do.  I feel as if I’ve landed in Nigeria but only speak Icelandic.  Like the Beatle’s Magical Mystery tour!  An uncontrolled, spontaneous, and often absurd, trip.

Mama speaks again. “We have all hoped for this time.”

Before I could ask why, she answered: “For many days we watch.  We worry.  We know you struggle.”

This slightly irritates me.  Everyone struggles from time to time I wanted to argue.  But before I did she retorted: “You are our friend.” She looked at me compassionately with her large brown eyes. They might have even watered slightly.  “When you struggle. We struggle. We talk”.

All of a sudden, this feels like a referendum on me… …(to be continued)

 

Adventures of Sasha's Gang--

Chapter 6

This slightly irritates me.  Everyone struggles from time to time I wanted to argue.  But before I did she retorted: “You are friend.” She looked at me compassionately with her inviting cocoa eyes, maybe even watering slightly.  “When you struggle.  We struggle.  We talk”.

Suddenly, this feels like a referendum on me. 

“You alright?” Spouse asked, sensing my confusion as the din outside slowly retreated, making sleep a real possibility in spite of the periodic aftershocks. 

“You friend,” Mama whispered inside my head.

 “A friend is one of the nicest things you can have.”  Socrates came awake to share momentarily. “And one of the best things you can be.”

“That no fart,” Hoss contested.  “Grandma say fluff.” 

“No more fluff,” Mama reprimanded. “Are you a dog? You smell more like a fish.”

“A dogfish!” Eisenhower teases.  Fondly nicknamed after the famous WWII general and U.S. president, Dwight D. Eisenhower, he had lived contently and joyfully as an army brat at Fort Lawton in Washington state all his life until the previous year.  However, his military family of nearly ten years was transferred to Japan and sadly, Eisenhower wasn’t allowed to continue his life with them.  An aged and significantly overweight mix of Blue Healer and something else not quickly discernible was destined for euthanasia control.  It had been a sad predicament indeed. 

But as fortune would have it, a retiring radio operator who had never surpassed the rank of corporal and was similarly portly, had taken a liking to Eisenhower and charitably whisked him away from the military-industrial complex as his namesake had so famously warned. 

“Twenty million strays in this country and we get you as our comedian?” Hoss retorts.

Spouse reads my calisthenic eyebrows as they wriggle in and out of the dogs’ conversation like peeping Tom’s.  “They still talking?” she asks, her breath a plume of pearl.

 

“Yes,” I chuckled, though still overwhelmed by the absurdity of the moment. Reminded me as a child when I would lay awake in my bed at night and listen to my transistor radio with a single ear plug which (yes, I’m asleep, mom) faintly pulled in radio stations from around the globe.  Some even broadcast in foreign languages!  Magic in real time!  The magical mystery tour of the 50s. I brought spouse up-to-speed on the current narrative as she pulled the covers tightly around us.  

Infused with a few calories of levity, she chuckled, “So Hoss is a dogfish?” Dogfish found in the Puget Sound are spiny sea creatures that very much resemble small mud sharks. In my younger years when I scuba dived these waters one night, coming startling face-to-face with one of these darlings and you could have tracked me just by following the avalanche of air bubbles escaping from my regulator and butt area of my wet suit.  Oxygen abandoned ship through every orifice available as if the Titanic! With the dogfish’ grotesque face but inches from my mask, I found God…or at least prayer…at 30 feet below the surface of salty Elliott Bay.  The mud shark appeared lifeless, likely knifed by a disgruntled fisherman who had grown tired of his bait being hijacked by these freeloading leeches.

 

 Spiny Dogfish. Credit: National Ocean Service

“By way of Eisenhower’s assessment,” I underscored the canine thread.

“And Turquoise?” spouse asked.

“She doesn’t much seem to engage with the others,” I explained.  “More like she’s just a spiritual conduit of sorts.  Maybe a grand antenna that simply amplifies and translates conversations…I don’t know.”

“Interesting,” Spouse ruminates, uncertain how to decipher this insanity.  Either I--her husband--for whatever reason, has become a person of interest in this paranormal carpet ride…or God forbid, has been afflicted with a strange flavor of delusionary dementia.  Although the unique conversation I had conveyed to her hopefully supported the paranormal explanation, I didn’t know myself the answer at this point to that conundrum.

“And Sasha?” she probed.

“Don’t know.  Just that brief glimpse of her…uh, spirit or whatever it was…hopefully more to come.” 

“At the right time,” Mama Cass interjected.  “Which is not now.” 

“Later mama says,” I translated the silence.

“She answered that quickly?” Spouse responded in amazement.

“Yep.”

“Best to  meet the rest of our gang,” Mama says, as the dogs settled back into our group accommodations for the night.  “This sweet girl with the million-dollar smile is Bambi.”

 

Bambi, a slim American Foxhound at 52 pounds and eight years, is a Monday-Friday daycare girl, residing with her loving dad in the condos across the street. She arrives early in the morning when dad goes to work so she can lay first claims to the night manager’s bed. 

She usually spends her entire day there except for her occasional breaks to join the rest of the gang downstairs for treats, her favorite being the whipped cream socials in the afternoons. 

A loving girl until her internal tilt wire is tripped like a drunken pinball machine by any canine that dares contemplates taking her spot on the bed.  Perhaps a maladjusted temperament from her early days in the shelter, but so antithetical to her mild-mannered appearance.

“Never thought we’d ever talk.” Bambi says with a glimmer of a smile, visible even in the shadow of the flickering candles.

And finally last but certainly not least is the enforcer: John Madden. The same name as the famous and boisterous football coach.  A coal black labrador retriever with an internal combustion engine that could rip a man’s arm from its socket at 50 paces of a restraining leash.  Madden seldom suffered fools lightly.  A slender and sinewy 75 pounds but with the mindset of a collegiate reveler during Florida spring break. 

An enforcer most definitely, be it beast, fowl or intoxicated college sophomore. In the basketball realm an enforcer’s role was not that of assists, three-point plays and rebounds. Rather it was to either decapitate or immobilize the other team’s best shooter or two.   

A few years back John Madden spied a couple of teen-age hooligans about to vandalize Sasha’s plastic wading pool which was brought indoors during the summer months.  With sharpened tree branches, their apparent intent was to puncture as many holes as possible in our August entertainment.

Unbeknownst to these miscreants, Mr. Madden (or just plain Madden as he preferred to be called) took such thinking to be an affront to his protective nature which was apparently fueled by some puppy-inflicted anger issues.  Madden exploded viciously as he leapt over the six-foot-high chain-link dog-run in a single bound, snarling and drooling.  These boys, without a thought for the other, unilaterally abandoned their mission as Madden glowered at them, threatening pursuit.  They spotted the threatening contrails in Madden's murky jet stream as they beat it down the street. You did not employ John Madden to make nice.  Relied on him instead to inspire others to tow the line.

I quietly relayed the introductions to spouse.

“They told you all that?”  She was impressed with the thoroughness of the canine dossiers.  If only her human patients were as voluntarily meticulous and comprehensive.  Maybe she should have been a vet instead of Florence Nightingale. 

“We all want to thank you,” Mama said sincerely. 

“For…” I started.

“For loving us,” Mama replied. “We know the terrain.  Won't get daily whipped cream treats at Petco.”

“Or someone that loves us as much as you two do,” Bambi further sweetened the air. 

“We love all you guys,” I said, suddenly on the verge of tears.

"Where there is love there is life." Socrates shared.

“But highly overrated,” Madden offered, his words muddy in hue.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Mama interjected.  “There is more than meets the eye here.”

“Okay?” I questioned with actual spoken word. 

“All of us dogs…we’s a gang,” Mama said.  “Sasha’s Gang.”

It was an endearing term that both spouse and I used often in referring to our paid flock.  “Mama says they call themselves Sasha’s Gang,” I whispered with delight. 

“How quaint,” my wife took similar joy, her teeth on the cusp of chattering.

 

“But legally,” Mama added.

“Huh?” I was confused.

“Sasha’s Gang.  We’re a legal corporation in the state of Washington.”

My confusion quadrupled.  This day just got even more insane.

“I mean how…” I started.

“Or better yet,” Mama suggested.  “Or why?’

“Okay I’ll play your silly ass game,” I challenged.  “So why?”

“The seven of us have all been ‘round here for over a year now…and well, just like you folks, we too have dreams“

“Dreams do not come true just because you dream them,” a yawning Socrates chimes in. “It's hard work that makes things happen.”

 

“I hear you,” I acknowledged.  Though the dogs don’t speak in decibels, their concealed voices are individually distinctive, making it easy to recognize who is talking.  And Socrates always seems to be equipped with a philosophical perspective as well on everything from Big Macs and climate change to rabies and leg of lamb.  But mostly, he likes to sleep.

Another aftershock briefly shakes the building as we hold our collective breaths until it wanders off.

“So tell me if you will,” I challenge.  “What is this dream that Sasha’s Gang is in pursuit of?” 

“Our mission if you will,” Bambi speaks in a voice of innocence.  “Is to invent a cure for short lives.”

My nose crinkles. “Say what?”

“What she is trying to say,” Mama intercedes.  “Is that you and your wife are essentially a book to us.  But our lives are but a chapter to you folks.”

“We want to live longer!” Mark Spitz exclaims.   

Hoss speaks up, “At most each of us have maybe three or four good years awaiting us.  That’s a bathroom break to you…” (to be continued)

The Continuing Adventures of Sasha’s Gang at Sasha's Pet Resort--

Chapter Seven

 

 

“Dreams do not come true just because you dream them,” 

a yawning Socrates chimes in. “It's hard work that makes things happen.”

 

“So let me get this straight,” I said with my inside voice…way inside.  “You uh…what, there’s seven of you?  I mean in the company…in Sasha’s Gang?”

“Seven active,” Mama explained. “Others as well...but sporadic…based on their owners’ schedules.”

‘So inquiring minds need to know,” I thought aloud.  “I mean you’re not like a legal corporation are you?

Eisenhower growls: “Bet your sweet ass we are.  Just because we be dogs don’t mean we not be serious about the rules.  Red, white and blue, sir!”  Spoken like a true patriot.  No dog left behind!

“And we got muscle to back it up!” Madden adds as the glint of his stiletto incisors shimmer in candlelight. 

I brought wife up to speed on the ghostly conversation of the paranormal.

“You’re serious?” she smiled, only half believing, shivering for warmth.  “They’re all legal like?”

“As a registered rifle,” Eisenhower interrupted with military cadence, apparently understanding spouse’s question even when posed in audible English. 

“As a registered rifle,” I echoed.  Wife shrugged. 

“We can always use your help,” Mama spoke.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Funding.”

It seems that single word rules the globe.  ‘Follow the money’ always gets you somewhere. You just need to sniff it out.  Whether a broiled burger and onions or nubile flesh or anti-tank missiles, the scent of their pecuniary exhaust attracting buyers like famished mosquitos. It’s funding that fuels the globe from Syria to Malta to Hawaii to Cuba.   Everything wrapped about it is simply decorative eye candy to appease the consciousness of the pardoned and guilty--and evade tax collectors’ grubby fingers. 

“Funding?  In which way?” I asked.

“Just like you folks need,” Mama continued.  “Everything costs money. Research.  Permits.  Clinical trials.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  “So, uh…this…uh whatever it is.  All of this a ploy to raise money?

“Of course not,” there’s a hint of indignity in Mama’s voice.

“Money's only something you need in case you don't die tomorrow,” quipped a drowsy but listening Socrates.

Maddens laughs.  “Knew you were okay, kid!  You and I should dig a hole or two or tear down a panel of fencing someday.”

“Focus.” Mama stringently interrupts. “Dan is obviously in the dark about all this.”

“You think?” I replied sarcastically.

“Listen, here’s the low down,” Mama starts.  “You all can go ahead and sleep.  I’ll just bring him up to speed.”

I remain alert to keep contact upon Turquoise’s soft head, since I need all the information her supernatural networking ability can transmit.  Maybe help me make some kind of sense of this day. 

“You want the extended version or the Cliff notes?” Mama asks, as she takes a moment to playfully swat at a tennis ball between her front legs.

“Well, looks like we have all night,” I answer.  “Whatever it takes to help verify my sanity.”  Then I whisper in wife’s ear, “Go ahead and sleep sweetheart.  I’ll give you a book report in the morning.”

“I’m good,” she said softly.  “Not scheduled until Friday.”  And even if they tried to phone her in for an emergency shift, they have no way to contact her.  Cell service was down with the power.

Sometimes isolation has its benefits.

“Remember these two words,” Mama adopted a tenured professorship, lacking only the bifocals and chalkboard and gray tweed business jacket. “TRIAD and Rapamycin.”

“Okay.  I’ll commit them to memory,” I said in earnest.  Willing to crawl naked through brambles for information. “What do they mean?”

“Our leading competitor,” Mama starts her tutoring session for the night.

That chemical, rapamycin, is what they call a mTOR-inhibiting drug that slows ‘growth mode’ in mice by about 15%. So the TRIAD clinical trials, authored by researchers in this space, is to test whether the same biology plays out in dogs.

TRIAD enrolled mature and senior, medium‑to‑large companion dogs and now treats them for 12 months, then follows them for an additional 24 months. The intent is to determine whether the same biology plays out in dogs.

If TRIAD confirms that low‑dose rapamycin delays multi‑system aging in pet dogs living “real world” lives, it would be strong evidence that the mouse mTOR/rapamycin story generalizes to larger mammals and could justify similar gero-science‑style trials in humans.

“Wow,” I say with genuine awe. “So if the goal of Sasha’s Gang is to extend your lives, why do you call rapamycin a competitor?”

“Friendly competitors,” Mama interrupts.  “Of course, as it pertains to our personal lives we are pulling for Triad two-hundred and ten percent. But…and it’s a big but at this time.  The TRIAD trial will take at least three years.  Some of us will be dead by the time they’re done.”

“I hear that,” I replied.  “So what’s your other options?”

“Besides dying?”

“I mean what else will Sasha’s Gang do?  What’s your purpose?”

“There are what, uh…what should I call ‘em?” Mama says. “A few Hail Mary options.”

“Such as? I press.

Mama cautiously scans the room as if about to spill state secrets.  “Your lips must remain sealed.  Share with your wife and no others.”

“You got it,” I answered.

“Lingonberry,” Mama spoke with pharmaceutical pride.

“That’s your Hail Mary?” I questioned.

“In part,” Mama quipped.  “There are two other critical jungle leaves that it must be partnered with…from Peru. It’s all part of the SG magic sauce recipe.”

“And what makes you think you can better the three years of testing that rapamycin requires?”

“Because we’ve already been using the SG magic sauce for a year.  No adverse side effects.”

“All of you?”  I understood the challenges in dosing unapproved drugs.  At least on the human side of the ledger. You run the risk of severe ill-effects, even paralysis and death.  “And can you tell if it even works?”

“Not necessarily on the extended life benefits…just too difficult to assess.” She replied. “But…each of us have our biometrics tested every month.”

“And?”

“And the early results suggest possible heart benefits, good tolerability and positive lifespan improvements.”

“But…I mean how?”

“How what?”

“How many things,” I said with slight frustration.  “How or who cooks your SG formula?  How do you guys secure business licenses…or open a bank account?  Or partner? Or pay taxes? Or get blood drawn? Or communicate your results with the scientific community?”

“All in good time,” Mama says wearily, this night’s lecture exceeding two hours and one aftershock.  “Let’s cut some Z’s and talk more in the morning.”

“Some people talk in their sleep,” Socrates yawned and stretched in sync. “Lecturers talk while other people sleep.”,,,(to be continued)

The Continuing Adventures of Sasha’s Gang--

Chapter Eight and Nine

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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.  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)

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 buckled…attempting to stand but unable.

“It’s okay boy.” Spouse gently rubbed his belly to help ease his distress as I wrestled with his flailing limbs, keeping his paws from her face. “We’re right here, Lucky.” She said soothingly, words of codeine. Trying to relax him or distract him as unfamiliar surroundings seeped into his partially open eyes like hallucinations. The untimely convulsions and gagging first slowed, and then ceased, as Lucky calmed--entering the eye of a storm, his breathing steady and balanced, storm clouds evaporating.

“Hang in there, buddy,” I urged, seeking him a measure of peace in an otherwise woeful situation. He futilely attempted to lick at spouse’s hand which had migrated to the happy spot between his chin and neck as he luxuriated in her feminine touch. We must be doing something right though he still looked wobbly and untethered, eyes wandering unhurriedly as he tried to orient to the room. But much better than he was ten minutes ago. “Well that looks better,” I exclaimed, as my breathing returning to earth.

“Kinda odd,” spouse scrunched her face. “That he was nearly comatose and now he’s coming around.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“Again, I’m not a vet,” she explained. “But I’ve seen human patients make similar recoveries…perhaps not quite this dramatic…but after a mild stroke.”

“So that’s our diagnosis.”

“No,” she snapped. “That’s our wild guess at the moment.”

“So you think he’ll be okay?”

“Dan, I haven’t the foggiest. He needs to see a vet…if any are open.” Any, if open, were likely without power and operating with skeleton crews. Even the 24/7 ER vets were operating well beyond capacity as the customers of the closed shops found their way to their overloaded practices.

Within half an hour, Lucky was sipping water and nibbling on freeze-dried liver treats, his tail slowly parading like the wave of a beauty queen. A portable radio ushered the silence out of the room as schools and most businesses closed for the day while the continuing aftershocks were still available. Nigh a holiday in many respects, except for four people losing their existence as an ancient Pioneer Square building succumbed to gravity’s decades-old patience and fatally spit up bricks. 

Mama Cass nonchalantly joined us in the puppy room where Lucky was swathed in warming blankets and hugs. Looking upon him maternally, pre-verbal tension tightened her usually placid jowls. I hadn’t noticed but Turquoise had also stealthily infiltrated the room, her humid muzzle warming my feet. Connecting with her in just a single day had nearly become second nature, a knee-jerk reaction. I hadn’t realized that my hand had without notice, landed on the top of her head, the canine network reopened.“I overheard,” Mama murmured quietly. “I don’t believe it’s a stroke.”

“Then what it is?” I volleyed, taking a plentiful breath and repeating Mama’s words to my wife. “She says she doesn’t agree it’s a stroke.”

Spouse rolled her brown eyes. “With all due respect, a stroke was a guesstimate. Not a diagnosis. So what does our learned rottweiler suspect is behind Lucky’s poor health?” A hint of professional derision.

Before a syllable of translation, Mama responded with single ice pick of a retort as she sniffed the air surrounding Lucky.: “Cancer.”

“She says cancer,” I reiterated, uncertain if there’d be a further surge in spouse’s sarcasm.

“And how on God’s green earth did she arrive at that diagnosis?” Spouse was both cynical and longing. Longing for a miracle advance in diagnostics, part and parcel to the recent medical advances associated with artificial intelligence. “So can wonder-dog here also tell us the type of cancer?”

Not a moment of hesitation. “Spleen,” Mama answered.

“Spleen,” I parroted as wife returned with our first instant coffees made with the propane hot water heater installed at the grooming stand. Even without electricity, we still enjoyed the necessities of life. Instant oatmeal was next on the menu and maybe mac n’ cheese later tonight. The radio reported that Redmond might still be two or three days away from the return of power.

“Spleen?” spouse responded with skepticism. “How could she even possibly know that?” Though she adored Mama Cass dearly, this diagnosis was challenging all credibility, even that overshadowed by surrealism.

“Smell” Mama continued with her sequence of one-word retorts. “Smell” I shared.

“Say what?” was the at-the-end-of-my-wits RN response.

And then Mama let loose with a barrage of verbal data that sounded entirely college-educated. “Yes. Smell. It’s no contest. You folks have five-million olfactory nerves packed into your noses. Those are responsible for your sense of smell.”

I relayed to spouse as Mama continued.

“You ever notice the size of a dog’s snout? Thick and elongated. You know why?” Mama hesitated not. “Because that’s where you’ll find the cranial schematic for 200-million olfactory nerves. Yes, us dogs can smell a buried cadaver a football field away. Or a cancerous tumor beneath 50 pounds of flesh…even those that remain undetected by advanced medical imaging.”

More of my Cliff Notes translations to which wife simply nods, having no further words of counsel for this multi-species debate. The darn dog seems to have an answer for everything. And hell…maybe she knows something that the nursing schools didn’t teach.

“So I know nothing about spleen cancer in dogs,” Spouse explains. “Is it terminal?”

I didn’t need to translate her words as Mama was on this like white on rice. “Most of the time…yes,” she answers. “Only because by the time they diagnose symptoms it’s usually too late. The tumor has already started bleeding out and the dog usually succumbs to the lack of blood in their system. Passing out…gums and tongue a sinister shade of blue. Oftentimes disoriented. Clumsy.”

“And is that Lucky’s condition? I asked.

“Unfortunately,” Mama answers, as the other dogs, hearing the conversation, filter slowly into the room. “Now I have read of some surgical removals of the spleen being successful since it’s not necessarily a vital organ such as the heart or liver.”

“So Lucky may still have a chance?” I speculate. With that spouse raised her eyebrows in query. I answer: “She says if caught early there may be a surgical solution.”

“Well likely we best get our hustle on,” Spouse retorted. “Imagine the sooner the better when it comes to cancer?”

“Faith is the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark,” Socrates chimed in.

“You know we lost Cherokee to spleen cancer,” Spitz added, wistfully. Cherokee had been his pit bull romance for nearly three years until she was unexpectantly taken away one morning, unable to stand and barely able to breath. All the ER vet could do was perform CPR until it proved fruitless. Heartbroken, Spitz refused to swim for nearly two years.

“Beyond our issue of extending life expectancy, a cure for canine cancer is also one of our priority projects,” Bambi added. “Sasha’s Gang is going to make a dent in this world of medicine. You just watch.”

I translated for spouse whose mobile phone was investigating spleen cancer. “There are options,” she said, “If not too late, there’s something called a splenectomy. Surgical removal of the spleen. Often life-saving since dogs can live comfortably without it.”

“So do we know if Lucky is a candidate?”

“We still don’t even know if he actually has spleen cancer,” spouse replied. “But either way, we still need to talk to a vet to determine if he does…and explore our options.”

“A vet that’s open would be beneficial as well,” I baited.

“My phone still has two bars. I’ll do some dialing for open vets,” wife declared.

“In China, they treat with acupuncture,” Ming said, having ventured out from the comfort of his warming blankets. “But that’s many oceans away.”

“It’s called hemangiosarcoma,” spouse added. “Even with surgery, odds aren’t very favorable. But I’ll start calling around.”

“On Whidbey Island, we treat as an inconvenience,”Madden says, true to his roots, the rough and tumble world of island living in the Puget Sound. He grew up on table scraps and old wives’ potions for disease control.

“Meanwhile, I’ll conjure up some human breakfast,” I said, as wife retreated to the registration desk to call. “Looks like instant oatmeal wins the hot water lottery.”

“I hurt,” Lucky muttered under his breath as he silently absorbed the pangs of pain.

“Lucky is hurting,” I shared with spouse.

“I think I found someone that’s open” she shared. “The VEG in Snohomish. Vet Emergency Group. Not only are they open. Their chief vet…Dr. Sherry Coleman. She’s actually an oncology vet. It may be our blessed day.”

“You two head out…” I suggested. “See what she has to say. And we’ll just hunker down here?”

With that, I carried Lucky, all 40 pounds of him, out to my wife’s ride. Radio assured us that most major roads were open and pretty much traffic-free. “You be a good boy,” I whispered in his ear, as I laid him gently on a comforter in the rear of her SUV. His eyes searched mine for even an inch of relief. I had little hope to offer other than for my words, though I was detached from my canine network, Turquoise still inside. “Drive careful,” I advised my wife with a quick kiss.

“Actually I was going to race on up there recklessly,” she teased, VEG located in a rural farming community with produce stands every other block about an hour north.

With her departure I tended to some housekeeping chores, taking out garbage, filling water bowls and reviewing reservations for the week, as the dogs moseyed about with heartfelt concern for Lucky.

Though limited to a single hour of familiarity, this band of brothers (and sisters) stuck together like birds of a feather. They were worried, though I wouldn’t have known to what extent if I hadn’t eaves dropped on their discussions. In less than 24 hours, my life had dramatically changed. I was now a super-dog savant, making life and death decisions for a canine I had just met.

At half past three, wife called. “I’m here,” she said in RN matter-of-fact verbiage. The doctor had performed an abdominal ultrasound. Spleen is inflamed and bleeding out. Says she can remove Lucky’s spleen…but there’s no guarantee that will buy him more time. White blood cell count is low. It’s a real crapshoot.”

“That’s all any of us really get,” I replied. “Let’s roll the dice!”… (to be continued)

  

 

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 love-fest 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 about 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 WWII 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)   

 

Adventures of Sasha’s Gang--Chapter 11

"Please call me when you know anything,” I urged.  “Love you.”

“To the moon,” she countered.  “Take care of those pups.”

I shared our conversation with the resting clan when the evangelistic Bambi spoke: “I’d like to suggest we all say a prayer for Lucky’s surgery.”

“Like heck we will,” Madden quipped. “I will gladly wish him best of luck.  But no God stuff.”

“To each his own,” Mama advised.  “But we need to all hold him in our thoughts.  He’s one of us.”

“Amen,” Bambi repeated as Spitz returned from the dog run, crashing through the doggy door. 

“You ain’t gonna believe this!” his tenor elevated.  “There’s a mountain lion outside!”

The clan responded with a hybrid of both disbelief and excitement.  “You sure it’s a mountain lion?” Madden asked.  “Does its tail reach the ground?”  Most of the felines that were native to the area were significantly the smaller and less dangerous bob cats who had scant for a tail.  Some had even been mistakenly identified by folks as large house cats. But the radio had advised that some bear and cougars had wandered from the nearby foothills, disoriented by the Friday earthquake…and were entering the city of Redmond in search for food in the way of deer and rabbit and small pets. 

“You can bet your sweet tush,” Madden continued.  “A long tail and four mammoth paws all reaching the ground.  Right outside our dog run.  He’s ‘bout the size of Hoss. And kids are home from school today.”  It was the Sunday of the Thanksgiving four-day weekend. 

“Well soldiers,” Eisenhower started with his John Wayne drawl.  “Somebody best ring Animal Control ‘n get that beast taken away before it hurts somebody.”

“Horsefeathers,” Spitz said aloud.  “Animal Control will take hours.  Especially on a Sunday morning.  Think we need to take matters into our own hands…”

“Or paws if you prefer,” Madden chuckled. 

“The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in war.” Socrates spoke with a yawn.

 

“Okay…time out everyone.  These dangerous situations are my sweet spot…my training if you will.”  Eisenhower (Ike for short) spoke with military precision. “Cover and concealment. Movement under attack.  As well as a simple warrior ethos.”

“Ethos?” Madden parroted him. “My aren’t we getting snooty?”

“Okay,” Mama intervened.  “Madden, we can do without the sarcasm. Ike is just being helpful.  That’s his profession.”

“A professional lion trainer?”  Madden continued with a slanted smile.

“He’s big,” Spitz added.  “He can certainly take someone out if he wants.”

“Well, let’s take a look at what we’re dealing with.” Mama said as she rose up from the blankets and migrated towards the doggy door.  The others, even sleepy Socrates, followed in her wake.

As they all assembled outside in the dog run, their collective breathing created a low-lying ground fog.  The mountain lion was nowhere to be seen.

“Very interesting,” Ike, with his sniffing snout poking through the chain link fence, said.  He closely eyed the ground outside the dog run. Fresh paw indentations can be seen in the frosty grass leading to Blazing Bagels in the back.  There was a narrow corridor between Sasha’s and Blazing Bagels that was of little use other than for storing broken pallets, a rusted push mower and ankle-high weeds. Certainly a secluded spot where a mountain lion could sleep or hide. Few people were yet on the street though this was traditionally the busiest shopping weekend of the year.  Though vehicle traffic had picked up as if the earth hadn’t awakened and Christmas was on the horizon.    

“He might have gone around back, behind Blazing Bagels,” Spitz explained.  “See his tracks moving that direction.” 

“Ike, what do you suggest?” Mama asked.

“Alright troops, now walk carefully…this is a potential crime scene,” Ike spoke with a calculated voice of authoritative persuasion. 

“This is not Hawaii-Five-0!” Madden mused.

“Oh hush,” Hoss reprimanded.  “This is serious stuff.”

“Madden,” Mama concurred.  “We love you.  But please cease with your constant ridicule.  It’s not productive and it’s vitally important we get this resolved immediately…before any person or any beast gets hurt.”

“You think I’m ‘fraid of a stinkin’ cougar?” Madden scoffed, sounding like the pugilist lion in Wizard of Oz, shadow boxing.

“Oh…and most importantly,” Mama continued.  “Nobody or no thing gets hurt.  Even the cougar.  Are we clear on that?” She briefly eyed Ike and then fixed her accusatory stare upon Madden, who squirmed a bit under the weight of her gaze.”

“Okay,” Madden blustered.  “I’m sorry.  Just teasing.”

“So Ike,” Mama said.  “Get us a plan together…one where no one gets hurt.”

With that, Ike performed an immediate about face and undertook a military march back into Sasha’s to write his short novella: How to Safely Capture a Mountain Lion for Dummies.  Immediate steps they needed before anyone was harmed.   

“Nobody go outside without my say-so,” Ike barked instructions as he discreetly scrawled his plan in the layered dirt of the rubber floor using his right paw…this his highly classified document.  One could see his jowls lightly move as he growled aloud to himself.  The other dogs anxiously awaited their war assignments as their Normandy invasion moment approached.  Meanwhile, the female police officer returned with a dark-haired teary-eyed woman in her early 40s in tow.  “Hello?” the police officer called out.

“Right there,” I answered, hurrying to the reception area. The woman appeared forlorn, maybe without sleep, her tight ebony curls in a mild uprising and a color snapshot grasped tightly, but lovingly, in her right hand.  “You have my boy Lucky here?” Here voice trembled with both dread and excitement.

“Thank you,” I said to the officer before turning to the woman.  “We do…but he had to go to the vet.”

“Oh no…what is it?” she asked, her breathing accelerating as she sniffled.  “That’s my boy…Lucky.  My boys’ dog.” She held out the photo to me and I could see Lucky, tongue out and eyes shining with two cherub-faced boys, probably brothers, in their early teens, arms wrapped adoringly about Lucky’s neck with sunflower smiles.

“He’s got a cancer in his…” I started.

“A cancer?” Alarm infiltrated her eyes. “What kind?”

“I’m sorry…as I was about to say, it’s in his spleen.”

“Uh…I don’t even know what a spleen is,” she pleaded.  “Is it, uh, you know.  Terminal?”

I wanted to answer carefully, recognizing her fragile state, yet I didn’t want to mislead her either.  “To be honest, any cancer is a concern,” I explained. “And not knowing where you were…well, we had to make a decision.”

“You didn’t have him put down did you?” A single sob of panic powered her words.  The officer tenderly laid a reassuring arm on the woman’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she whispered.

“Oh…no.  God no,” I reassured her.  “Rather he’s likely in surgery right now to remove the cancer…if possible.  My wife’s a nurse and she’s with him.”

“Is the surgery dangerous?” she asked.

“It can be,” I clarified. “But this vet is a cancer specialist.  Dr. Coleman and she believes…based upon her tests that there’s a reasonable chance of success…uh, if the spleen doesn’t hemorrhage during the procedure.”

“Where is he?”
“At an animal hospital up north in Snohomish.  A bit over an hour away.”

“Maybe I should go be with him?” she suggests.

At that moment, if on cue, my phone rang.  Wife calling.  I held up a pause finger to the officer and woman.  “Morning sweetheart,” I answered.  “Uh huh.”  I nodded.

The woman explored my face for answers.  “It’s my wife…they’re just getting ready to anesthetize Lucky.  She’s a nurse down at Overlake…but spending today with your boy.”

“Can I talk to him?” the woman asks.

“Sure,” I said, “Think that can be arranged,” I switched my phone to speaker. 

“He’s just had a shot to relax him first,” My wife explains.  “Then he’ll be out for the surgery.  Maybe a few hours.   But he can hear fine right now.  Go ahead and let him know you’re here.”

Without further encouragement, she crouched slightly and leaned into my phone.  “Lucky baby…this is mommy,” she held back her tears.  “You hang in there uh, these people are going to help you. Mommy loves you so, so, so much!  The boys too.”

“He’s wagging his tail,” wife exclaims.  “He hears you. The team is ready to knock it outta the park.”

“Oh…please take care of him,” the woman grasps the photo tighter, her hands doing what her words could not.  Embracing her baby.

“He’s got the A team here,” wife quipped. “They’re taking excellent care of him.  And God will abide us as well.”

“Please…he’s only five…has plenty of life left in him,” the woman begged.

Overheard from a distance: “Hey, this is Doctor Coleman…we need to move on with the procedure now.  Should be a couple hours.  We got your boy covered.” 

Suddenly, the Sasha’s gang began a collective howl from the roller derby room, as they spied the predator in their front parking lot stealthily nosing at the chain link dog run.  Though not connected to Turquoise at the moment, I could nearly sense the conversation as Ike shouted orders: “This is a red alert.  We have a visual on the intruder.  I repeat, we have a visual.  Implement now Plan B.”

In silent unity, the woman cried out: “Please don’t let my Lucky die…oh please.” .…(to be continued)