Sasha
I step down onto the airport escalator. My eyes feel heavy. The strap of my carry-on bag carves a groove into my shoulder. I am numb to my surroundings as I descend. Finally, my escalator step flattens into the floor and is about to disappear under the metal platform, mesmerizing me. I step off sluggishly, my heel landing with a hollow thunk. I have survived the five-hour flight with a steady flow of Jack Daniels I couldn’t afford. It’s taken the edge off but I’m still completely sober. I had managed to avoid small talk with the passengers on either side of me. Perhaps the weak smile I gave when I sat down had told them enough. I was grateful to them for leaving me alone, for I feared if I tried to speak, I would crumble. Now, ahead of me, I see my father. He opens his arms wide, and I collapse into him, sobbing. All of the pent-up emotion pours out of me, and now that it’s begun, I can’t stop it. He wraps his strong arms around me, holding me tight, and I’m transported back to when I was a little girl. Only this time, I haven’t scraped my knee or crashed my bike. This time, I’m flat broke, and I’m moving back in with my parents. I have left my house, my job, my boyfriend, and worst of all, I have left Sasha.
Sasha was the first Band-Aid for my failing relationship. The second was a house, pressed against the desert on the western side of the city. From my bedroom balcony, I could see the lights of the Las Vegas strip, far down in the valley, often obscured by smog that had blown in from California. My boyfriend had heard of a guy who had German Shepherd puppies, not papered but supposedly purebred. He brought her home and we were in love, if not with each other, then with her. She was slight of frame, her sleek, black, coat mixed with tawny brown. She had likely been the runt of the litter, and already looked like she would develop hip problems despite her small stature, but, oh, was she smart. She tilted her head to listen to words and stared into human eyes with deep understanding. Maybe we trained her, or she trained us, but it was so easy I barely remember it. She came on command. She could walk the sidewalks without a leash, waiting at each corner until I told her it was ok to go ahead.
For me, homesick for my family and the Northeast, she helped to partially fill the void I’d felt since graduating college, failing in New York City, and now failing again in Las Vegas. I’d given up my dream of Broadway, leaving a one-year contract on the table at a regional theater company in New York, and come to the place of his dreams, where he felt he could prove himself and become something bigger than the small-town guy he’d been back home. It was one of many missteps I’d made, using the “why not” logic, as though one-year acting contracts fell into people’s laps all the time, as if my dreams didn’t count as much as my need to be validated through a relationship, as if opportunities in theater would magically appear, as if when I failed, I would have someone or something else to blame. They don’t call it young and stupid for nothing.
Sasha gave me something to pour all of my emotions into, a purpose outside of my miserable job at the insurance agency, where the toxic manipulations of the weasel-faced Vice President had me dry heaving each morning before I went to the office. I would drive twenty minutes home during my lunch hour, chugging down a SlimFast along the way, let Sasha out to play, soak in the sunshine, happy to be momentarily free of the oppressive negativity that stifled me the rest of the day, and then drive back, a ball of lead in my stomach pending the afternoon to come.
I had learned the hard way that Sasha did not like to be contained. First, we tried crating her. She peed in the crate. Then we tried leaving her in the empty garage. It was nice and cool, and she had plenty of room to play with her toys or lounge on her bed. She chewed a hole clear through the drywall. Next, we left her in the kitchen, with a baby gate blocking off the living room. She reached her paw underneath the gate, and dragged a plant across the floor, leaving a sooty streak of soil on the carpet. She stood on the gate and chewed on a framed picture that was hung on the wall. Finally, I just left her with free reign of the house, and nothing happened.
In the early morning, I would walk Sasha through the cookie cutter development where we lived, wondering at the people’s lives inside the multi-shaded stucco homes. We would wander over to the area of razed desert, where the second half of the gated community would eventually be built. I would throw rocks, and oddly, Sasha would chase them and bring them back. The sound of the rocks grating against her teeth always made me cringe, and I worried that she would choke or chip a tooth, but she never did. If she found a particularly worthy rock, she would bring it home, and I would save it for her to use again the next morning.
Sasha was a good traveler, and she loved to camp. She explored Death Valley, the Valley of Fire, parks in Utah, Arizona, and Nevada. Not having much experience traveling with dogs, I didn’t realize how fortunate we were. She was easy, smart, and loving. She never wandered off. She didn’t bark, she was great in the car and the tent. She loved to explore.
These were excellent distractions as my relationship deteriorated, my job continued to take its toll on my health, my father was diagnosed with cancer, my mother spent time in a hospital with amnesia, and my grandmother died. My feeling of isolation from my family intensified. I needed to go home, to see my family, to make sure they were ok. I had already used my annual (whopping) five days of sick/vacation time, and despite my job being one hundred percent commission, my office manager docked my pay for the Friday and Monday I had to take off to travel across the country and back for the weekend. I couldn’t afford my pay to be docked. I couldn’t afford the plane ticket. I couldn’t afford the house I lived in or the evenings out when we had visitors. I couldn’t afford the minimum payments on the credit card. I could barely afford gas and groceries. I was sinking, desperately trying to kick my way to the surface. I had tried to grow roots in a place where nothing was meant to grow, the parched, dusty earth absorbing what little I had, yet giving nothing in return.
When I got back from my trip to New York, I knew I had to make a change. The Band-Aids were coming loose, the adhesive only attached by bits at either end, threatening to break free. I had to go. I couldn’t thrive in the barren desert. I needed grass and trees, rain, and snow. I needed lakes and ocean, and seasons to mark the passing of time. I was too young to feel this way, too young to settle for unhappiness, too young to be this tired. So, I planned. I had tough conversations. I caused someone I cared about pain. I gave notice at my job. I sold my car. I paid months of advance mortgage so that my boyfriend had time to find a roommate.
I had to leave Sasha behind. My boyfriend loved her as much as I did. He would be alone in the house. She would keep him company. I was going home; moving in with my parents, and after that, finding a job and a place to live somewhere, anywhere, in the Northeast. I didn’t know if I would be able to have a pet. I didn’t know if I would have any money. I wasn’t even sure when I would have a car. With all of my unknowns, it felt right to leave her with stability. It felt like a salve for the man I was leaving. It felt like the right thing for them, but the wrong thing for me. She would never know where I went or why. She would never feel my love again, or hear my voice, or smell my scent. She would never understand. She would be abandoned by me, the person who was supposed to take care of her. I would never again be able to bury my face in her fur, or talk to her on our long walks, or look into her soulful brown eyes and explain to her why I had made this choice.
This last part plagued me for months after I left. I would lie in bed at night, my hands balled into fists, jammed under my pillow, sobbing as I thought about Sasha waiting for me to come home at lunch time, waiting for me to throw rocks for her, waiting to give me her love and strength.
For a time, after I left, my ex-boyfriend and I were on good terms, and he kindly gave me updates about Sasha. He sent me a DVD with videos and pictures of her. I watched it once. I couldn’t watch it again.
A few months after moving back in with my parents, I got a job in Connecticut. My ex began seeing someone new and she would not allow him to contact me anymore. Finally, the house in Las Vegas sold, severing the last connection my ex and I had. I never heard from him again. Years later, I saw his sister, and I asked about Sasha. I was devastated to learn that Sasha had developed a brain disease and had to be put down. I was awash with fresh guilt; not because I thought I could have done anything about her condition, but because I couldn’t be there to soothe her; because I felt she was still mine, even though she hadn’t been for a long time. Perhaps she didn’t even remember me. Perhaps she had lived a wonderful life even though I had gone. But, oh, how I wish I could have looked into those brilliant brown eyes once more, so I could let her know that I always loved her; that I was still hers, that I hadn’t forgotten her. It’s been nearly twenty years, now, and I know I never will.