Worlds Collide

Nikki

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I saw a white wolf sitting next to you while you shared your dream,” a woman said. “She was protecting you.”

“A wolf?” was all I could muster.

I was at a writer’s workshop in Manchester, New Hampshire, facilitated by two authors who were also dream interpreters. A good friend of mine had organized the weekend. Twenty of us sat in a circle on hard plastic chairs in the multi-purpose room at a local Unitarian church. Some of us were there as writers, others were interested in having their dreams deciphered.        

I had yet to introduce myself to the woman who made the wolf declaration. She knew nothing about me or my history with the wolf, which dates to a vision I had some thirty years ago, when I was living in Honduras. She didn’t know the wolf had followed me home from Latin America, prowling my dreams and guiding me during my waking hours. She didn’t know that I had encountered the wolf on hikes and while riding my bike, or that I had sat in my car in front of a Navajo shaman’s house near Window Rock, Arizona, for two days, waiting for him to tell me about the wolf, and that he never came out to greet me. She didn’t know that the wolf had just revealed herself to another human, and I had no idea what to make of it.

All eyes were on me. Amy, one of the facilitators, knew something about my dream world and sensed my anxiety. “Let’s take a break,” she said.

Amy came toward me. “Are you okay?”

I was far from okay. What did this mean? “I need to get out of here,” I said.

“Take all the time you need, Beth.”

I went into the church and lay down on a hard bench. After the shaman chose not to meet with me, I decided I no longer needed an explanation. Call it spirit, God, or the universe, the wolf and I were connected both here on earth and in a realm that defied conventional meaning. After the initial shock wore off, I was relieved to know someone else had spotted her. It made it real, and I felt less alone in this journey that was chosen for me.

This was 2014, and much would happen in my life over the next decade, the wolf continuing to appear as a mother figure in both my dreams and in nature. In 2021, my husband, Ron, and I moved from our ranch in Animas, New Mexico, to Sierra Vista, Arizona. While walking our dogs one evening, I spotted a white dog tracking us with brilliant topaz eyes through a chain-link fence. I froze. “My God, Ron,” I said. “It’s my white wolf.”

That was five years ago. I eventually met the couple who owned the dog. He was our bug exterminator, and through him, I learned his wife loved to bake. She and I became fast friends, and when she passed suddenly last September, I took the loss hard. Her husband, unfortunately, never recovered, alcohol the only thing quieting his grief.

Michael called a few weeks ago. He couldn’t walk, and would I mind coming over to feed Nikki, the white wolf dog, who had spent most of her eleven years in their backyard and who also lunged at me, baring her teeth, when Michael’s wife first tried to introduce us. “She’s very protective. You know she’s a husky hybrid. She’s part wolf,” she shared as a way of explanation for the dog’s aggressive behavior.

“I’ll be there soon,” I assured Michael.

“Thanks. The front door is open,” he said

I walked in with a plate of food for Michael and trepidation about meeting the dog. The house was a disaster, and I found Michael lying in bed among a pile of filthy sheets and pillows, drunk and smoking a cigarette. I’ve had a bad run with alcoholic men in my life. What the hell is wrong with you? I thought. Get out of bed.

I set down the plate of food on the nightstand. “You need to eat. You’ve lost a lot of weight,” I said, shifting the conversation to the dog. “I’m worried that Nikki might bite me.”

Michael waved his hands in the air. “She’s fine. Bring her something from the fridge. Her food and treats are outside in a bin next to the door.”

Rotting food clung to dirty dishes on the counters and the stove. Plates and glasses floated in greasy, stagnant water in the sink. Simultaneously, the urge to clean up the mess and gag struck. My gag reflex won, and I grabbed a cracker for Nikki off the counter. Before opening the back door, I asked Saint Francis of Assisi to watch over what could be a very bad encounter.

Nikki met me at the door, and with a soft mouth, took the cracker. “Good Girl. Good Girl.” I repeated, as I filled the empty food and water bowls. She let me stroke her chest as I fed her treats, but it was clear she was as cautious as I was, and I retreated to the house.

I was so angry to find a dog or in this case, my white wolf, without food and water in eighty-five-degree weather held hostage in a dirt backyard blanketed in dog shit, I lost all empathy for Michael and his situation. It took several minutes for me to calm down before I went to say goodbye to Michael. “I’ll bring you something to eat tomorrow. I’ll feed Nikki, too.”

The clutter, filth, and chaos caused me to shut down, and I missed the signs of suffering. I missed Michael’s cry for help. I missed that his home had become a prison encased in memories, profound grief, and loss. I missed an opportunity to connect, to show human compassion, to ask questions, and to help. The problems were too big and too out of control, so I turned my attention to the dog, telling myself that she was the one suffering at the hands of an alcoholic. And that part was true. She was suffering. But so was Michael.

I continued to bring Michael a plate of food each day. I encouraged him to call his doctor and to take a shower, to no avail. All the while, it was Nikki, the white wolf dog, who summoned me, whose needs superseded Michael’s, and after several days, the divine happened. I woke one morning with George Harrison’s song “Give Me Love” playing in my head. It became so loud and annoying that I looked up the words and was struck by these lyrics: Give me hope/help me cope/ with this heavy load/Trying to touch and reach you with heart and soul. I knew then that Michael’s suffering had reached a crescendo and that if I didn’t intervene, he would die. There were options to consider and calls to make. Michael was taken by ambulance to the hospital. “Your friend would have died today if you hadn’t made the call,” a nurse told me. “He’s one of the lucky ones. Can you tell me what happened? The doctor will want to know.”

How do I tell this story? Is it about a man who lost his wife and lost his way? It is about an alcoholic deserving of human kindness? Is it about the kind of grief that finds us at the bottom of a hole so deep, the light no longer reaches us? Or is it about the wolf, the one who prowls the shadowlands between this world and the great unknown?

Nikki, the wolf-dog, saved Michael’s life. I was simply her human mouthpiece—the person who could pick up the phone and call for help. She is the vision, the protector, and the song. In the ashes of neglect and suffering, she has found her new pack with us, where she is well-fed and loved. And our story has just begun.