The Adventures of Sasha’s Gang--Chapter 15

Who is it? I asked Turquoise--me a bit bewildered and fearful.

“It’s our sense of smell,” Turquoise answers in part. “We can actually smell cancer cells.”

“Whose cancer cells are you actually smelling?” I focused. 

“Sorry to say…well, I know it might, uh…upset you…but it’s you, Dan,” she answered softly.

“Me?” I gulped.  “Cancer?  What kinda cancer is it?”

“Canines aren’t doctors.  We don’t possess the ability to confidently identify cancer types…but we can generally determine the intensity and stage of a malignancy.  In this instance, I’m only sensing dysplasia cells…or what your doctors call precancerous.”

“So uh, I don’t have cancer per se?” I asked with a sigh of relief.

“Not by the medical profession’s definition…but dysplasia cells are known to more easily evolve into cancerous cells.  So word to the wise.  Have it checked out,” she urged. “Old human adage of being safe rather than sorry.” 

I studied Turquoise’s placid and relaxed stature, my fingers massaging the silky nape of her neck.  She watched me with neon blue eyes as if assessing me for shock or disbelief.  But after the events of this past week, there’s not much I wouldn’t believe.  “I will…trust me,” I replied, joyful with this immediate reprieve. “But no idea where it’s located.

“Again,” she answered with maternal care. “We’re not oncologists…but the scent seems to be strongest coming from your head area.”

Ah, most non-excellent I mused.  I’m afflicted with brain cancer! 

“Don’t think so,” she heard my thoughts.  “Somewhere in the neck and head area it seems.”

“So were they all aware of this?” I asked, referring to Sasha’s Gang.

“Some were…some weren’t.  We’re no different than you humans.  Some enjoy practicing medicine while others prefer to chase golf or tennis balls!  But even those that knew had no way to communicate that to you as I’m doing now,” she answered. 

“So for your next trick?”

“Not to brag or anything, but we’re also big into diabetes,” Turquoise’s neon eyes glowed.

“How so?” I asked.

“We have the ability to detect sugar levels in the blood.  When it gets precariously low, we can sense that and assist our humans in resolving it before they pass out or go comatose…or die.”

“So you can really do that?”

“Oh yes.  A big sensitive nose is a very valuable tool,” she acknowledged. 

“I knew y’all could smell fear…adrenaline in the blood if I remember correctly.  But didn’t know about all your biological impacts,” I mused.

“And we come standard with those…at no extra charge.”  I could almost see her smiling in a Ford car commercial.

“So based upon your referral, I will definitely see a neck and head specialist next week.  And it’s most appreciated.”

“My purpose,” she said solemnly. “To improve the human condition.  And again, probably a non-issue…but we want to make sure.”

“So that’s your reason for being here?” I pursued. 

“Among many,” she replied softly, enigmatically.  “But primarily for human guidance.”

I chewed on that last sentence as if the sinew of counterintelligence.  Our job at Sasha’s is to train the dogs.  But in a span of 72 hours, that dynamic has been reversed.  Now the pups are here to guide us!  Go figure.

“I must rest now,” Turquoise says with a faint ghost to her voice. “I must pace myself.”

I was a bit dumbfounded. Aren’t they all-powerful and omniscient? “But aren’t you like a goddess or deity or something?”

“Aren’t we all,” she answered before regally gliding to the floor, her eyes slowly retreating.  Sleep was in order.

A few more hours of daylight before feeding time around 5:00. This was typically my responsibility unless wife stopped by after her nursing shift. She enjoyed feeding them. But of course, tonight she was keeping Lucky and his dog mom, Delaney, company during the post-recovery.  In addition to feeding our motley crew of canines, the responsibility for feeding any two-leggeds in the building also fell to me.  This detail should be of utmost concern to anyone operating, or about to open, a doggy daycare.

It's a given that when conceptualizing the must-haves for a doggy daycare, most prospective owners include a doggy kitchen in their business plan.  A location where all the various dog foods and supplements are housed, fresh water available and reliable refrigeration for fresh foods and medications.  It is usually located close as well to the rooms where the dogs are to be fed.  So while it may not be marble-clad, it’s often as well designed and efficient as a human kitchen.  And I had one in my plan.

But what I plainly didn’t have planned (which was just as critical) was our two-legged kitchen. A galley which eventually had to nourish a full working crew and guests.  Since I leased Sasha’s instead of buying, I pretty much had to settle for an existing kitchenette already populated with a quality fridge, built-in dishwasher, sink and garbage disposal.  The “ette” in Kitchenette is an industry eye-wink code-name for little to no space for cooking.  So while my fridge can keep a fresh turkey cool for days, I have no stove or oven with which to cook one.  Maybe an Easy-Bake Oven could be employed, but what size mini-turkey does that require?  No room for a traditional stove top.

My cupboards are obese with uncooked Costco spaghetti and colored macaroni. Uncooked because cooking requires boiling water which in turn usually requires a stove with which to boil said water. 

Thus, in part, I became a bit of survivalist.  After I realized having lunch and/or dinner delivered each day by DoorDash at $25 per meal was not a sustainable diet, I appreciated my only real alternative was to prepare my own culinary specialties.  Now cooking is not alien to me.  My stepfather who, had served as a Marine cook and radioman during the Korean War, taught my brother and I how to fry eggs when we were only four and five years old.  And it expanded from there. 

Eventually we took on toast, hot dogs, burgers, tacos, cookies, biscuits, even chocolate custard eclairs.  I became the Julia Child of the Shoreline area (before zip codes, it was Zone 33).  On Friday nights, when my parents would bartend at the Y-Tavern on Aurora, my brother and I would don our Chef-Boyardee caps and bake

succulent desserts in between watching the Flintstones and 77 Sunset Strip in black and white. The only rule my parents laid down was that we had to wash all cooking utensils and return them to their original locations.  The cooking was easy and fun.  Cleaning up was a pain the butt. Pretty much like life.

I wish I could proclaim to have lost weight during this six-year diet, but not so.  Then again, I have not slathered on the tonnage either.  But I have learned the art of small-space cuisine.  A hungry doggy daycare owner is as toxic as a shark in a toilet bowl.  So what daily specials will you find on the menu at Sasha’s Deli?

First, my supporting staff:  Sasha’s came with a fridge, kitchen sink, and garbage disposal.  I, in turn, added a small microwave oven, two-slot toaster, Vitamix Blender (it comes with a VW engine!), bagel slicer, air fryer, electric skillet with lid, and the star of my kitchenette, the red plastic microwavable spaghetti cooker!  

Add uncooked pasta and water and microwave for approximately 15 minutes and Mama Mia, Sasha’s kitchen is transformed into a traditional Tuscany village with the steamy splendor of sauteed garlic and succulent tomatoes.  Who needs a traditional stove top?  Not I!

That’s my limited-space cooking infrastructure.  Next question then is so what do I cook?  Keeping in mind that I’m seldom able to break away from Sasha’s to shop, I order supplies every two weeks from Costco delivery.  Costs me more and I miss out on all the free samples, but still consider it a blessing not having to battle half of my zip code over the free offerings of kielbasa sausage and Dave’s Killer Bread!  I usually spend about $250 each visit, though I still dip into petty cash every once in a while for a Pad Thai food delivery and wife will swing past Costco on occasion for the $1.50 polish sausage and drink.  Lately, she’s added the strawberry shortcakes to this order!  We eat like royalty on a budget.

My Costco shopping list often reads as follows (with a concentrated effort not to buy a gross of anything…someday I’ll tell the story of our receptionist who ordered us 144 staple removers):

Eggo waffles, frozen chicken wings, frozen salmon patties, beer-battered cod, ground turkey, bagels, whipping cream (for our daily canine whipping cream social), frozen beef burritos, Jonny Pops (only 50 natural calories), Ramen noodles (high in sodium), spaghetti sauce, cheeses, Crystal-light, new potatoes, pre-cooked rice bowls, Honeycrisp apples, pasta, and tartar sauce (in deference to my wife, I nearly ordered a gross of that!). Every tongue is different, but this list is probably an appropriate launch pad for many taste buds.

I’ve learned well the art of improvisation from cooking in limited quarters with a finite larder of food stuffs.  While I wouldn’t survive in Gordon Ramsay’s Hell’s Kitchen, I can still please my wife’s palate when she stays for supper!  Just go in with your eyes wide open and be adaptable in terms of your expectations relative to doggy daycare dining.

Suddenly, the mention or thought of food abdicated its glittery appetite as my consciousness is rudely sucked back into the moment--time into a clock.  A terrifying canine screech at the top of its massive lungs sent a message of horrible distress as the building trembled.  Either the cougar had returned and was mauling one of our canine’s intestines or one of the guests had taken a cannibalistic liking to Chinese food (sorry Meng!)

I escaped the cobweb of my thoughts and stood straight, before launching myself towards the front door where I sensed the wails to be the loudest.  If I hadn’t removed my hand from the now slumbering Turquoise I would have heard Mama’s guidance: “In the dog run!”

Slamming into the front door with my shoulder (amazed its glass hadn’t shattered), from the corner of my eye and with an assist from the slender retreat of the November sun, I saw a darkened amoeba of Sasha’s Gang members through the chain link fence as if boys encircling a playground fist fight. They wriggled and barked, some growling, as if cheering on feuding pugilists.  But this wasn’t a fight or duel. Drawing closer to the dog run, I made out the shadow of an old maple stump which had become the dog run’s totem—centerpiece--where they joyfully took turns digging beneath it until it closely resembled the entrance to a coal mine!  Still the stump’s extensive root structure protected it from the dog’s perpetual excavation, no chance of a cave-in.

With that logic in tow, I reminded my wife that our dogs were in no peril when she complained about their digging.  The bunker was sturdy and supported by a thousand roots that homesteaded the dog run.  There was no snarling or other signs of provocation from a dogfight. Nor hissing of a mountain lion with a squealing beagle snack. But the haunting yelps and screeching continued to escape from the dim of the dog run, setting my blood pressure and lungs in a foot race, heart thumping like a trapped rodent.  What was happening?  An overload of information fouling my thoughts like tangled fishing line.

As I hurriedly crashed the double exterior gates to the dog run, careful not to allow any escapes who might be lurking in the shadows, the pack of dogs in unison turned their heads to assess my intent.  I slipped a tad on the imported Augusta pine straw which sparsely covered the dirt.  The dogs parted allowing me to move closer to our strip-mining efforts as a few remaining rouge-colored Maple leaves pirouetted to ground in a dancing breeze. I was uncertain of my intent other than figuring out why a dog or two sounded to be leads in a pending calamity. 

And with Turquoise nowhere to be seen (likely still recharging her batteries) my communications with the Sasha’s Gang was momentarily off the air--or I’m certain I’d know much more.  But as I drew adjacent to the dirt cavern, I realized the only thing I could see protruding from it were the tawny rear legs of a relatively new dog named Hauser who was frantically attempting a U-turn!

A brawny Anatolian Shepherd less than a year old, he lives in the backseat of a decades-old Toyota with his owner in a Home Depot parking lot. His 20-year-old owner is securing multiple local gigs with a moving and storage company and is working diligently on finding subsidized housing so he and Hauser can actually move out of the Toyota before Christmas!  I sensed the kid was doing all that he could to provide a better home for himself and his dog, so we gave him our charitable rate of “pay us what you can afford…when you can afford.” And he hasn’t taken this as an invitation to take advantage of us. 

As Hauser heard me approaching, his howling diminished, realizing that help was imminent.  “Hey Hauser,” I tried to calm him.  Then I realized he was struggling to keep his vision on me, his front legs invisibly tethered to the narrow front end of a diminishing tunnel.  And of little use in freeing him from the soil prison.

“Hang in their fella…we’ll get you out,” I said, uncertain it would be all that easy. This dog must weigh 120 pounds and the hole was overflowing with gravity.  And I could sense that Hauser was frustrated…maybe on the cusp of panic, claustrophobic.  My soothing words could only calm his nerves for a few short minutes.  Absent that, there was a good chance that he might just actually implode fighting his early restraints, bringing on a heart attack or stroke.  I can’t let that happen but there is no one else here to help me try to drag him out.  I can taste the human seasoning of adrenaline and wondering…(to be continued!)