I feel the urge to write about Sasha and share her stories—writing is how I process the world. But how can you sum up a decade of life with a Husky? Impossible. So I’m just going to blurt out some memories, slap on some photos, and hope it’s coherent.
There aren’t any adjectives to properly describe Sasha. My go-to was always, “She’s just…Sasha.” And if you had ever spent even a few moments with her, you understood what I meant. Sasha was completely off her rocker. She was smart as a whip and knew right from wrong—deliberately choosing to do wrong every.single.time. Always while wearing her shit-eating grin. Because life was more fun that way.
Sasha was my first real responsibility. My first unsolvable challenge. My first mistake. Right off the bat, she taught us that college kids moving across the country had no business getting a Husky puppy. We were reminded of that over, and over, and over, and over. Every day I’d slowly approach the garage door with one eye open, bracing myself for whatever destruction she had inflicted upon the house.
But like any “oops baby” (oh yes, grief does not suddenly make me into a better person), she was ultimately my best decision and worth all the heartache and drama. From Day One, we were the best of friends. Partners in crime. Bonnie and Clyde. She was my personality trapped in a furry body.
It was Sasha’s mission in life to cause mischief. As a puppy, she would greet us with a variety of practical jokes—standing on top of countertops, bringing 5-lb sacks of potatoes to her bed, biting the caps off an entire case of bottled water. Even at 10, she personified an ADHD child with sugar coursing through her veins. Always stomping, always talking, always wanting things exactly her way. Or else.
Sasha also had a heart of gold. She loved everything and everyone. Especially me. Every evening between 8 and 9 was “kiss o’clock”—she’d hunt me down and bathe me in sandpaper-tongue kisses. When I’d come home from trips, she’d climb into my lap and cry inconsolably. She really was a Husky only a mommy could love, and she loved me hard in return.
Losing Sasha has been harder than I imagined—but in a weird way. The pain of realizing she was sick and having to put her down was terrible. It was fast and sharp and knocked the breath out of me. But the times I’ve blissfully forgotten what happened and come home expecting to see her bounding around the corner with that gigantic grin—that pain has been much worse. Putting away her food bowl forever. Finding her fur on my shirt. Rescuing her broken tennis ball from under the couch one last time. That pain is deep, agonizing, and terrible.
I know everyone thinks they have the best dog. And that may be true. But I had a Sasha, and she was The Best.
If there is a doggie heaven, I hope you’re up there raising absolute hell, good girl.