Ode to Wilson

For a little over a year, I was the proud owner of a charmingly needy and somewhat codependent Schnauzer. My little fellow’s name was Wilson, appropriately named after the volleyball in Castaway who kept Tom Hanks’ character sane. He reminded me of a scholarly grandfather with his black coat and silver mustache, eyebrows, and paws. Wilson was sent to me from my sister’s family. He had not been particularly loved by my brother-in-law, and I felt compelled to rescue him. Little did I know it then, but I had it wrong - he was sent to rescue me.

The first night of his arrival in early April was chaotic. Wilson, having come from rural Minnesota, was easily upset by the sounds of the masses in an urban area. Already grieving his lost family, Wilson announced his terror by barking at every noise he heard. And Wilson had exceptional hearing. The paper being dropped at 5 a.m. on our sidewalk elicited a surprise barking attack. Leaving him standing alone in the entry way as I walked 50 yards to get the mail resulted in yelps bordering on hysteria. Anyone who says that dogs do not have feelings has not lived with an animal.

I tried everything I knew to soothe him over the next week, but by Saturday night my nerves – at least what was left of them - were worn to a frazzle. I was not sleeping because every passing car drew a growl from Wilson. No matter where I put him in the house, he would not settle down to sweet dreams of chasing rabbits and squirrels. I found myself to the point of almost inflicting physical harm in a last ditch attempt to quiet him at 2 a.m. It startled me awake, as if I had taken a dive into a frozen lake on a winter morning, to see the reality to which desperation and exhaustion could drive me.

I woke up the next morning, stumbling towards the kitchen for that first cup of tea, convinced that I needed to give Wilson away. Except for an incessant niggling of guilt, I was certain I was right. I was almost willing to take him to the Humane Society, except I needed to be sure that he would be cared for and loved, that no one would beat him, or forget to feed him, or throw him down the stairs. Had I not happened to run into my friend Lou, a closet teddy bear who works very hard to maintain a curmudgeonly exterior, I might have continued with my plan.

But Lou stared me straight in the eyes and said: I think you need to keep him. Take him to obedience classes. You’ll get some mastery over Wilson. But more than that, you’ll get mastery over yourself.

Mastery over myself. He was right, and I knew it. I decided to keep Wilson and make an honest go of it. No running away when it got hard. Returning home, I found a different Wilson. He was calm. He was relaxed. He slept under the table while my friend Lori and I ate lunch at the dining room table.

I was more like Wilson than I wanted to admit. Self-neglect was compounded by a heart still broken in a thousand little pieces from a summer romance that had ended as abruptly as it had started six months earlier. Like Wilson, I felt locked up in a cage and did not know how to live with so much noise. Wilson barked. I ate. We were perfect for each other, only I didn't know it yet.

The unspoken threat of rejection had created a core of antagonism between us, which melted with my decision to keep him. Wilson understood his Sacred Hunger. He craved acceptance for who he was and loving attention he knew he deserved, and he wasn’t afraid to give loud and clear voice to his sense of isolation and loneliness. He didn’t eat to hide his pain or fear. He asked for his needs to be met in the only way he knew how - he howled. I craved acceptance and attention too, but didn’t yet consistently listen to my Sacred Hunger except through the voice of compulsion. And then I would tell myself that I was wrong for experiencing these chaotic feelings and doubly wrong for bowing to the god of hunger. I was flawed. I was defective.

I wasn’t flawed nor was I defective. I wasn’t listening. After the crashing end of the relationship, I had retreated once again into the illusory comfort of food. Food grows a powerful voice when I lack willingness and capacity to listen quietly to the wellspring of my heart. It speaks of desires unfulfilled and a longing for strength and courage to go after what I want, which is sometimes just to be held in the arms of another who looks into my eyes, and without words, accepts all of me. In giving Wilson unconditional love, I began to heal. His constant presence was a soothing balm. I allowed myself to receive devotion from another being. And this is how Wilson and I became a family.

Sometimes Sacred Hunger, the voice of love inside, leads to a path of letting go. The circumstances of my life changed significantly during the time Wilson lived with me. I got a new job that I loved, I found the courage to face more demons and another layer of excess weight came off, and I met and fell in love with my husband Jimmy, who ironically has eyebrows that are black and sprinkled with salt which gives him a bit of a Schnauzer-like appearance. I had to admit I was no longer able to give Wilson the time and attention he needed. I loved him enough to find him a new home with children and a backyard to call his own. Although Wilson has been gone for almost two years, he still lives in my heart. I am forever grateful to this dapper and demanding doggie, who taught me the most fundamental lesson of all: When we listen to our Sacred Hunger, we are forever changed. Thank you, Wilson. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Blessed Be.