I can hear her breathing close to me. The rise and fall of her body is steady and even, a contrast to the sudden jerks of her legs. I've almost forgotten what it's like to sleep with her. It's been awhile since she's spent the night. Still, she's acting as if there has been no break in the routine. She is happy to be with me and holds no grudge for time we haven't spent together. She forgives easily and because of that, this is my best relationship.
Sasha can mellow any mood and lift me from my way-too-precious state of self-involvement. Tonight, she gets onto the bed and straddles me in my sleep. I wake to a face full of powerful breath and excited eyes, an inch from my own, staring into me. I'm at once startled and charmed, impressed by her direct approach.
Though it's early, I slip from the oven I've created beneath the covers and take her out into the cold for a walk. She is prancing, proud of her savvy expediency at getting what she wants. I laugh as she alternately holds her nose up in the air or drops it for a fast inhalation of snow, followed by a quick sneeze. I have a lot of love for this puppy. The complete absence of maliciousness, her honest states, makes her capable of doing no wrong by me.
Sasha has a circle of friends. Sure, she has dogmates, but most of her time is spent with people friends. There are six of us that share her and assume varying responsibilities for care-giving. Sasha is a group dog, if there ever was one.
There is her first owner, who moved south, and after a spell of depression and throwing up, Sasha fell in with her new principal parents -- the owner's roommate and boyfriend. They were wary of inheriting a dog, especially one so sensitive.
It didn't take long for Sasha, with her toothy grin and flirty tail wagging, to loosen the knots of their concerns. Sasha's spell extended to us, two other links to the people and the pup. Together we share her, together we are her makeshift family -- people-parents who handle the day-to-day care, grandparents who pop by for a quick pick-me-up and a walk in the woods, and an aunt and uncle who fill the balance of her time. We are an unlikely circle of new friends united by a magical puppy.
The first time we all came together was for a dinner to celebrate Sasha, a sort of faux birthday party. Initially, it was a bit weird. We arrived separately and over a stretch of time. It was obvious that our one mutual connection, what kept us all in common, was the dog and maybe little else.
We are diverse in profession and politics and our backgrounds mismatch. Twenty minutes into the evening we were talking happily among ourselves and finding, to our surprise, a galaxy of satisfying discussions.
Meanwhile the unlikely circumstance of having us all in the same room overwhelmed the dog. Sasha looked anxiously at us one by one, her head shifting in degrees, as though asking herself "These people know each other?" She leapt to her feet and played out the symptoms of a panic attack: noisy hyperventilation, stuttered steps and the sour harmonica notes of her crying. We managed, all at once terribly sympathetic, to soothe her state until she finally lay back down, giving us each a grateful lick on the hand. Sasha proved, as she has often done, that she is amazingly sensitive.
While the family I've befriended has added a refreshingly unexpected dimension to my life, so has the dog. Before her, I was enslaved to the concrete carpet that is Toronto. I got my exercise in gyms, took my car everywhere and succeeded in cutting all greens out of my visual diet. Scenic routes were boring and going slow made me sweat with frustration.
When I started walking Sasha, I'd give her chain a hurried yank every time she lazily stopped to sniff the fire hydrant or some piece of gross garbage littering the route to the park. Once there, I would hang out feeling bored while she dizzied herself with the fun of chasing the ball. Without fail she would bring it back to tease me, her tail swinging like a metronome, then take off when I went to grab it. The predictability of her actions and responses eventually entertained me. If she had her tricks, I had mine, and as long as she kept falling for them I kept playing them.
My favourite was the fake throw. Sasha would bounce in 180-degree spins, her tongue flapping wildly, then sprint toward all possible ball destinations. She'd exhaust every nook before returning empty mouthed, an eternity later. I'd reveal it slowly from behind my back, she'd perk with delight, and I'd fake again to the identical reaction.
It wasn't long before I was daydreaming about the park. Summer was coming and I was beginning to notice, for the first time since I was a kid, the awesomeness of nature. We were a natural team, Sasha nosing through the leaves and me investigating the branches, or watching the sky while she'd roll happily in the grass. I started running again. This time Sasha was my company instead of a Walkman. I've found balance.
Sasha and her remarkable family have evened out what was an unacknowledged bend toward self-absorption and closed thinking. I am richer because of them and for learning that happiness is in the small things. It's a cliché so basic a dog taught it to me: puppy love.
Dave Morris lives in Toronto.