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.”
Sasha's Pet Resort
“I hear you,” I acknowledged. Though the dogs don’t speak in decibels, their ethereal voices are each distinctive, making it easy to recognize who is talking. And Socrates always seems to be equipped with a philosophical bent on everything from Big Macs and climate change to rabies and leg of lamb. But mostly, he likes to sleep.
Another aftershock briefly shook the building as we held our collective breaths…until it wandered off as quickly as it arrived.
“So tell me, I challenged. “What is this dream that Sasha’s Gang is pursuing?”
“Our mission if you will,” Bambi speaks with a voice of innocence and pride as well. “To stop short lives.”
My nose crinkled aside Bambi’s graying chin. “Say what?”
“What she’s trying to say,” Mama interceded. “Is you folks are a book to us. Yet our lives are but a chapter to you.”
“We want to live longer!” Mark Spitz exclaimed in excited half leaps beneath a tri-colored circling Afghan, as he noticed his swimming hole in need of a refill.
Hoss speaks up, “At most each of us have maybe three or four good years awaiting us. Some more…others less. That’s just a bathroom break for you…”
“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)