Sasha: The Matriarch

I've posted about 'The Herd' before, but I've yet to touch on 'The Pack' much; they prefer to stay out of my horse life as much as possible. But, with Kachina gone off to school, I figured it was a good time to introduce the other side of my passion for four-legged critters.

I share my life with six dogs, and I love them all tons, but Sasha is the only one of my little pack that has ever felt truly and wholly mine. She runs the canine portion of our household -- from Anubis, the 125 lb. Pit Bull/Mastiff mix, to Capone, the 4 lb. long-haired Chihuahua -- and it's pretty much an understanding that the hierarchy goes: Humans > Sasha > Everyone Else. And even that line of command is situational (for example, if Sasha wants the couch, and my brother also wants the couch, you can pretty much bet that Sasha's getting that couch).

We found Sasha, along with her two siblings, in a dumpster when I was eleven or twelve. The lid was closed, and we only investigated it because I had to throw something away and heard whining and sounds of movement. I can't even say how old they were, but I'm certain that it was somewhere between 7-10 weeks. So young, and someone just tossed them in the trash to live or die.

The other two went home with friends, but I wanted to keep Sasha. The family already had two dogs -- Cirra: a huge, working stock German Shepherd who I still say was the best dog in the world, and Blossom: a black Labrador who acted nothing like the neurotic, spazzy labs I see now. My mom and I begged my great-grandmother if we could keep Sasha and, after some debate (although I think she only argued out of parental obligation; there's no way she would have turned away an animal in need), she agreed with the understanding that "if she destroys anything, she's sausage" -- hence the name "Sasha."

Sasha and I have been through a lot together: When I was twelve I was convinced that we, alone, would win the Iditarod, and began our "extensive" training (I even ordered an official Iditarod patch in preparation!). We've mourned together over the deaths of her mentors, Cirra and Blossom, my great-grandmother, my cousin and Buffy and Bootsie, her adoptive doggie "aunts." Even recently, when I lost my grandfather, I came to Sasha when I needed to cry. She saved Taco's life when he was attacked by a Blue Heeler/Dingo cross; she earned a very dashing scar across her nose from the fight, which she still wears proudly to this day.

Sasha was the reason I realized that I wanted to train dogs. Which is ironic, since I never had to "train" Sasha. Sasha didn't learn, she understood. It was more like having a partner than having a pet; you asked her to do something and she knew what you wanted (except for walking on a leash; she never did quite grasp the concept restraint, which I have to admit is another reason that I love her). She was immensely intelligent and patient with everyone (except she took no crap from other dogs), and still is.

Sasha's thirteen now. He body's a little more gray and a little frailer than it used to be. Her hips don't work quite as well, and she can't run quite as fast (though don't tell her that) or dash up the back steps, and she might be a little rounder and squatter than she was a few years ago. Still, she's got the same shinning, dark eyes she had when we were both younger, and the same contented, easy smile.

I've learned so much from Sasha, but probably the most important lesson is that love has no expiration date, and it never runs out. I know that she's old, and that we are very possibly reaching the twilight of our years together. However, no matter how tired Sasha's body has gotten, her heart and spirit and ability to love have never once weakened. She still nuzzles me now the same as she did when I climbed into a dumpster and gathered her into my arms for the first time.