Sasha
Sometimes, in the dead of winter, I think back on a day in February some years ago …
It is Valentine’s Day, and I am depressed.
The reason I’m depressed is because this is the day we are getting a new dog. We already have two dogs. The difference between two dogs and three dogs is the difference between two fleas and an infestation.
But I must admit that this will be no ordinary puppy. We are looking at a dog that is part wolf.
When we arrive at the breeder’s house, we see that he has several wolf hybrids available. We ask for his advice. He shows us one little ball of fur, a female, who is 3/8 Siberian Timber Wolf, 1/8 Siberian Husky, and 1/2 German Shepherd.
“This one likes people,” he says.
That’s good. The last thing we need is a wolf who doesn’t like people.
We name her Sasha.
We quickly discover this is no frou-frou poodle of a dog who’s been bred for fluffy fur and genteel dog dish manners. Nor is this a Rover or Spot, whose self-esteem depends upon hours of nonstop affection.
No, Sasha is a different creature altogether.
She’s willful and independent, with ancient insights and secrets that we can only guess at.
The first time she sees waves, she snarls and snaps at them. At first, this may seem silly, but there is wisdom at work here. Wolf wisdom. No one wants to live in an aggressive, hostile world. What is a wave if not aggressive and hostile? Water with an attitude. Since then, I’ve snarled at a few waves myself. It helps.
The first time she smells smoke, she becomes incredibly nervous. Without anyone telling her, she knows that where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and fire is dangerous. Wolf wisdom. When I was her age, I had to burn myself to learn the same lesson.
The first time she sees a snake, she backs off. She knows snakes are not to be trusted. Wolf wisdom. Adam and Eve could have used a little.
She is a charmer, flirtatious and aloof at the same time, with a quirky sense of humor. She is both savvy and spacey, a cross between Ingrid Bergman and Goldie Hawn. A woman we know says she would give anything to have eyes as beautiful as Sasha’s.
Most of all, Sasha loves trouble. Her face brightens at the very thought of mischief. She routinely digs out under the fence in the backyard to lead our other two dogs on a midnight run of the neighborhood.
Once, she is gone for a week.
On another occasion, she actually jumps into the dog catcher’s truck. (I suppose you take your adventures where you can find them.) When I go to collect her, she is sitting in his lap.
Each time she runs off, she rolls in things vile enough to make a skunk gag. Dow Chemical couldn’t produce a smellier concoction.
I suppose it was inevitable. She finally got into more trouble than she could get out of. On one of her escapes, she was hit crossing a highway. When we found her, she was alive, lying in a field.
Explanations don’t work with dogs. We couldn’t tell Sasha that her back was broken, or that the vet recommended that we have her put to sleep.
She trusted us to do the right thing.
I hope we did.
I don’t know what happens to dogs when they die.
Maybe nothing.
Perhaps their spirits bound around out there in some garbage-canned, fire-plugged shadowland.
Who knows? Some may even go to heaven.
One thing I do know. If Sasha did go to heaven, she’s already dug out under the Pearly Gates several thousand times and driven God to distraction.