We have a very special dog named Sasha, who is about nine years old. We got her from Rescue Angels, who transported her here from Tennessee when she was a few months old. Her name was Sunshine, and when I saw her picture online, I decided we had to have her. We headed to a woman’s home in Alexandria to meet her and prove ourselves worthy. We passed the test, scooped up Sunshine, and headed home with Edwin and Maxine, who were five and two at the time. By the time we got home, her name had become Sasha (middle name Sunshine), and we discovered she is a little cross-eyed and that one ear always stands up straight while the other flops over.
She can be a bit of a delicate flower. When the cannons go off at Ft. Myer, she becomes a drooling, quivering mess. She has to meet you a minimum of thirty or so times before she concedes that perhaps you are not out to get her. She’ll bark and run, fierce watchdog that she is. Once you’ve won her over, though, she’s never selfish with her love. She rewards her very favorites with a desperate whine and booty shake that cries out, “Where ever have you been?”
Sasha’s true habitat is the woods. It’s where she’s happiest, especially when we can let her off-leash. People who have gone with us and have only seen her timid side are astonished that this is the same dog. She hurries from scent to scent, wagging her tail and keeping at most a 10-foot distance from us. Sand is what really gets her motor running. She digs and prances along the creek or river bank, barks and play-growls, doing her “mad dog” routine. It’s always our favorite part of a hike, and as soon as one of us spots a stretch of a sandy bank, we can’t wait to get her going.
She’s our Sasha Sunshine, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.
My Corner of the Village 