The Adventures of Sasha’s Gang—Chapter 13
Sasha's Gang Adventures
Sounding as if two 16-wheelers had collided head on, the detonation continued beyond impact as the aluminum detritus continued to pummel with its metallic warble—littering the surgical floor with scalpels, retractors, worry and one large drying tray. Lucky was in the middle of a delicate cancer surgery—requiring multiple blood transfusions—that required unimpeachable space and tools, fully disinfected. This crash undoubtedly violated that protocol and likely would slow or even inhibit the surgical process.
“Our bad,” wife reported as the vet assistants hurriedly cleaned up the mess, bringing in a second platoon of sanitized implements. “This is Doctor Coleman,” the muffled vet spoke through her mask. “No problems…other than the bleed-out. Lucky is receiving transfusions and hanging in there. So far, so good.” With that she continued her cutting and stitching.
“I’ll ring back when we know more,” wife assured.
Under her breath, Delaney prayed barely aloud. Hoping Lucky could hear her over the phone, even through the fog of anesthesia, she whispered in a tremble, “We love you Lucky…c’mon boy. We love you…”
It was in this moment I realized the evolutionary nature of my affection for dogs. When we first opened in the winter of 2019, I did so with the inherent understanding that I really enjoyed sharing time with dogs (though not the yippers or farters) and as a retirement gig, it certainly beat pouring molten cheese on corn chips at 7-Eleven or greeting folks at the doors of Target (I’m not much of the greeter type).
And since my golf game was in shambles with a bad back (and not very convincing even when my back was good), I figured, at best, caddying was nowhere in my future, let alone winning the Mastersl Thus, a doggy resort fit seemed a perfect solution.
What I failed to include in my algorithm that brought me to this glowing conclusion is the fact that I get very emotionally attached in a very familia way to canines. Not certain when that affliction took roost in my DNA, but I often find myself scratching at fleas or shedding. They say familiarity breeds contempt. Probably does in many instances. But what I’ve learned in six years of doing this is it also breeds compassion and love. In both directions. Even the breeds I wasn’t too fond of early on: Toy Poodles, Yorkies, Pit Bulls, Dachshunds and Rottweilers eventually joined my rolodex of friends and favorites. I have stories relative to each breed--but will save you those precious moments until later.
I can feel that dynamic in play now with Lucky, a dog I’ve only known for less than a day—and I feel as if I’m negotiating at my father’s deathbed! My reservoir of tears pool like magma, awaiting eruption. I have to consciously think them away—not wanting to fray Delaney’s strained resolve to restore Lucky back to health.
“Sounds like the surgery is going as anticipated,” I shared with her, not wanting to alarm nor overpromise. Strike a balanced tone.
“But getting transfusions…” she quietly countered.
“Sorry,” I explained. “Fortunately, that’s an option…without which he’d have no chance.”
“Failure is an option…fear is not,” Socrates opined, having overheard the phone conversation. The dogs were sequestered in the roller rink room, hanging close to the mattress and parfait of comforter and quilts—as well as the doggy door escape into the dog run for a potty break--as Delaney and I migrated back into the room.
Monday morning, it was time for Sasha’s Gang weekly board meeting. With Turquoise at my feet, I tenderly massaged her scalp, once again feeling that narcotic warmth travel up my arm while generating a chant of subdued dog voices.
“Bambi informs me that our AI agent…which…or who we’ve nicknamed SGAI…is now fully functional.” Mama said. “In charge of tracking and scaling our Lingonberry clinical trials, we have a placebo population of 134 dogs and a lingonberry-treated group of 211 canines. Bambi, you have details, please?”
“Yes. Thanks Mama,” Bambi smiled, as she stood, a deer-like waif with the intellect of an art major. “We’ve actually incorporated in Delaware due to tax advantages in that state.”
“Hear, hear,” Madden playfully interrupted.
“Please…” Mama began her reprimand.
“It’s okay,” In spite of her fragile appearance, Bambi enjoyed fighting her own battles. “The tax benefits are unparalleled…but even more important is the fact that it’s about 2,500 miles from here. So no need to show our faces. Ever again. Keeps anonymity at a premium.”
“What about video meetings?” challenged Ike, the military pooch. “Zoom or something? Can’t hide our hairy snouts on video.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” added Bambi. “AI handles all that for us. Creates video avatars that look like people…and even talk like people. We can conduct all necessary face-to-face communication in that manner.”
“This alone will streamline our operations.” Mama added. “We’ve also hired a corporate law firm in Delaware. Those will be our talking heads when an issue requires real-time human input. Now all we gotta do is increase canine longevity.”
“To that end,” Bambi interjected. “After 18 months, the control group has not demonstrated a measurable increase in lifespan.” The control group was measured for each breed of canine data including projected lifespans and other biological statistics so as to measure our lingonberry results against historical data. The control group had experienced 4.2 deaths during this 18-month period. This is what the clinicians had projected it should be on average without the introduction of our formulations.
“Meanwhile,” Bambi continued. “We’re excited to see extremely demonstrative results in the Lingonberry group. Only a single death and that was for the girl who passed from the spleen cancer a few months earlier…same as Lucky is dealing with today.”
“And based again on the projections,” Bambi added. ”…a canine population of this size typically would see 7.4 deaths in an 18-month period. We have experienced none…zero!”
“And while this is still early in the clinical study…like a phase one if this were a human trial…and we need to be cautious in any assumptions we make,” Mama added. “While our study has demonstrated our solution to be safe, we have now moved onto the critical effectiveness stage. Does our formula actually work to increase lifespan? Once this is scientifically demonstrated, then we will move onto a quasi-stage three in which we determine optimum dosing and demonstrate our superiority over existing treatments.”
“Sounds like a lot of heavy lifting,” Hoss suggested, as he rolled lethargically onto his side.
“Oh, it is,” Mama retorted. “And that’s why we’ve assembled a talented team of researchers at the Washington State University school of Animal Studies…headed up by Dr. Andres Gutierrez. A seasoned pro known as a top research specialist in the extension of biological life.”
“This is amazing!” Ming spoke, hearing of the lingonberry clinical trials for the first time. “You are attempting to do something that’s truly unheard of…”
“Because we keep our mouths shut,” Madden rebuked. “Commies like him will spill state secrets quicker than a baby with a broken sippy cup. You mark my words.”
“I have never been out of the state of Washington,” Ming said disdainfully. “And I’m apolitical…so please stop with your unwarranted insults.”
“Yes,” an annoyed Mama agreed. “We’re building a team here Madden…your disrespectful ways don’t help. And if you’re not on the team…then get off of it!”
“And I just might be able to help,” Ming suggested.
“What? You gonna bring us deep-fried cat heads?” Madden sneered.
“Madden…” Mama steamed under her breath.
“Please Madden,” Socrates wore a wrap of feminine mystique. “If you’re not part of the solution, then you are part of the problem.” And though seldom displayed by her, she flashed a hint of feminine guile. “And anyone wanting to know me better, best adopt that philosophy.”
“But…”Madden started, yet no other words volunteered.
“No buts.” Socrates smiles. “We aren’t human beings. We’re dogs! We all wake up excited each morning…tails wagging like windshield wipers in a gale. While our human counterparts wake up waging wars. We’re better than that.”
Madden mumbles. “Well…uh, I guess.”
“Guessing plays no part in it,” Mama intervened. “Not sure there’s a cause and effect, but maybe when you realize you may only live until you’re ten or eleven…then you best not waste any of those hours being miserable…or as we’re fond of saying, being human.”
“Amen,” cheerful Bambi glowed, nearly iridescent.
“But back to the challenge at hand,” Mama said. “You’re all aware of our good news…that we have now fully deployed our artificial intelligence agent to oversee --and whenever possible, fulfill nearly every task associated with the Lingonberry initiative.” She paused as if to estimate the gauge of the track before her. “But just learned that there’s some bad news associated with this goodness as well.”
Before he could conjure up a joke, Madden forced himself into a watertight hush. Enough Madden levity for a day. Not if he aspired to trade quotes with that tart, Socrates, at some point. Clean up his act.
“So what’s the bad news then?” Spitz asked.
“Money,” Mama continued. “We’re seeing spectacular results…albeit early in the game. But the infrastructure to support this is…well, expensive. And we don’t have nearly enough cash.”
“How much we short?” Madden played it straight.
“With the electrical bills and all the tech support…uh, probably a quarter million a year,” she sighed, ongoing funding a legitimate concern. They had raised enough money to get things launched and infrastructure put into place and clinicals started. But their plan was to fund ongoing operations over time. “But as they say, if you can’t afford the kitchen, don’t plan the meal.” In a few months they would be running on fumes.
At that moment, Matthew, Coconut’s (a 4-year-old white toy poodle) owner, arrived to pick up Coconut for the last time. She had been visiting once a week as a daycare dog for nearly three years, arriving every Tuesday morning. Punctual as clockwork. But the economics of living in Redmond simply out-muscled Matthew’s paycheck, so he had decided to relocate his family to a lower-cost climate in North Carolina. Coconut worshipped Matthew (and vice-versa) and came running when she heard him come in with her high-pitched welcoming squeaks.
“Damn…I forgot,” I lamented, as I quickly scanned today’s run sheet. While I had made mental note of Coconut’s pending departure weeks earlier, it had gotten lost in the weeds as we dealt with an earthquake and Lucky’s health issues. Suffice to say, I don’t do endings or good-byes very well. I mostly bond with dogs that board with us since I get more facetime with them…to know them better, more intimately. Since my dogs at home had over the past three years perished, the dogs at Sasha’s had become my surrogate dog family. Even the daycare dogs that were regulars often topped my list in terms of ‘family members.’ Coconut was one of those. I could feel tears welling up as I firmly shook Matthew’s hand.
“In the chaos of the quake, I totally forgot this was Coconut’s last day,” I confessed, speaking in a low tone to prevent my voice from breaking. “Hate to see you guys go.” I hadn’t felt similar remorse since my mom passed well over a decade earlier. I had no explanation for my inability to muster an adult good-bye, but I felt like a play schooler when it came to endings and my thoughts just piled on. “She’s four-years-old and moving cross country. You’ll likely never see her again.” It felt like a certain death sentence. Another color pilfered from my diminishing fabric of life. Depression ambushed me from all sides.
“She loves it here,” Matthew too appeared a bit weepy eyed. “You guys have been so, so good to her.”
“That’s why we do this,” I replied. ‘She’s a great pooch. Please take good care of her.” And in this verbal funeral procession of sorts, my phone rings. A call from my wife. Two in the afternoon, likely the surgery is complete. Did Lucky survive? Answer it!
“Hello,” my voice waivered like that of a child begging to go to the Saturday matinee with no guarantee of success…(to be continued)