Tell Him I'm Angry

Will you do me a favor?

If you see a man with short brown hair and a dog named Gracie, please tell him I am very, very angry with him.

I suppose it’s unlikely. After all, it’s been more than a decade.

But if you do see him, tell him.

Let me explain.

Our family came to this hotel years ago. We’d just spent the day at a waterpark. One by one, we ushered our five kids in the door when all at once, he began to whimper.

Jack.

My son.

I knew the whimper was the warmup to the main event. The full blown meltdown. The screaming and the headbanging.

The other kids grow wide-eyed. They, too, know where this is headed. After all, a family is a stage where we each choose our roles. In our house, autism provided the music to which we dance: violent drums one day, melancholy flutes the next.

I saw him first. A man with brown hair. Next to him, a dog waited patiently. Then the proverbial lightbulb went off in my mind. Jack was scared of dogs. Terrified, actually.

I walked over to him. In hushed tones, I explained autism, my son. The man nodded. Then he did something I didn’t expect.

He sat down on the floor next to his dog. Gently, he began to call out.

“Jack, we’re waiting for you. This is Gracie. We’re waiting for you.”

Jack paced the room. He circled closer. Closer. He reached out his hand, and stroked her ear.

When we all piled into the elevator a few minutes later, I felt a spark of excitement.

I’m sure you can guess what happened next. We got a dog. We named him Wolfie.

What can I tell you that you don’t already know?

After all, everyone thinks their dog is the best dog ever. Smart, adorable, funny, sweet.

But he was. He was all of those things.

And then, at twelve years old – his prime, really, because small dogs should live a very long time – cancer began to chase his bones.

And this dog, this puppy-pups, this companion of my heart, he was supposed to see me through the rest of the college drop-offs, the birdies leaving the nest, the quiet rooms and the quieter days.

Can you see how I am angry at the man who started all this heartbreak?

It’s over now. The vet has come and gone with her syringes and her condolences.

In the final moment, I whispered his name one thousand times. I kissed his ears, the top of his head.

This furry autism whisperer who turned a frantic boy into a dog-lover, who absorbed more tears than I can count into his soft neck.

The lullaby when we couldn’t sleep, the bright spot on hard days, the heart of this place we call home.

So if by chance you see this man again, so many years later, tell him I am angry.

But also tell him how grateful I am.

My heart is broken right now, it’s true.

I am told it will heal.

Now, here I sit at my desk. I try not to look at the window seat where he once napped, or the patch of sunlight he preferred on the rug.

And I wait for the healing to start.

It’s lunchtime. In a few minutes I’ll get up and walk to the kitchen. I’ll stand at the counter and split a piece of cheese in two. I’ll eat half. I don’t know what I’ll do with the rest.

Wolfie.

Puppy-pups.

I wanted more time.

I wanted forever.

Goodbye, to the best dog I ever knew.

“How did you help your son’s anxiety?”

Article: Autism, Anxiety, and Medication