Lionel and the Wind
What the Dogs Know — Stories from a shelter volunteer and animal communicator.
When I first met Lionel, he was a bee in the air chasing a butterfly. A forty-pound bee. I had no control of him. I lowered my center of gravity, afraid of being dragged to the ground, my shoulders and arms stretching every which way. Then I did the only thing I could think to do. I stood still and asked him if there was anything he wanted to share with me while he jumped and pulled around me.
He was electricity, dancing in the wind without ever having its ground.
Then, in a flash of inner vision, I saw a man in the sky above him, who seemed to be a chief. I sensed he had been important in his community, and that he and Lionel had been close. Lionel had lost him and was still looking, and the man had come to help me understand what Lionel needed. Meet the wind, the man said. When I leaned in, Lionel grew still. Each time we met, I had to remember to lean in.
Lionel had been at the shelter a long time, and he was stressed. He was hard to walk, so one day I took him into the yard to run. He became a slingshot along the fence as people went by. When he caught another dog's scent, he barked and threw himself at the fence until his mouth bled. I called for help. I didn't know what to do. I'm just a volunteer.
I tried to avoid walking Lionel because he was not that fun. He was the dog people passed over.
But after that incident, something in me decided he needed more of my attention. In some way I knew how he felt: misunderstood, overlooked for being a challenge. I set out to meet him where he was.
Our conversations were brief, if that at all. He couldn't focus, pulling me toward the bushes or lunging after some scent. But I was determined to be present with him and see where we could go. I began each walk happy to see him.
A month later, on a walk, he had an incident with a stranger. No one was hurt, but I told a staff member. I felt bad reporting him, unaware how close the consequences were.
Before starting my walks the following week, I asked how Lionel was. Not good, I was told. I asked if there was something I could do better, wanting only to help him. Someone suggested treats to keep him focused. I don't take treats on walks, and Lionel had never shown interest in them. This time I grabbed a few different kinds, not knowing which he'd like.
I walked into his isolated kennel, and he was calm and happy to see me. I invited him out for a walk and leashed him. But the moment he stepped through the door, he lunged and barked at someone passing and yanked me down the hallway, his usual business.
Something told me to go a different direction that day, down the tree-lined path by the water. It was less a poo walk and more a let's figure this out together moment. He did better with fewer distractions, so we kept to the quiet, narrow path, and I practiced the loose-leash technique I'd learned when my dog Stanley was a puppy.
It never worked on Stanley because he knew my game, but it worked on Lionel. After a few adjustments, with his focus kept close, he walked well. We stopped in one spot to practice, and he was great. He loved the meatball treats, not the cheap ones, but the real reward was more of the path. Each time he kept the leash loose, we went a little further, and he got to explore.
He sniffed, curious. When he tried to pull, I reminded him, loose leash, and we continued down the path. He watched the way the water moved. He lunged in excitement at a squirrel scurrying up a tree. A murder of crows burst from a nearby grove. Most of the time, he stayed with me.
For months he was the dog I left for last. But that day he was the first, and I gave him a well-deserved walk on a beautiful fall day. I spent forty-five minutes with him, when walks usually ran about fifteen, so every dog got outside. It felt right.
Heading back, I stopped to give him another meatball treat and thanked him for his attention. I knelt to rub his behind, paused to feel the sun on my face, and closed my eyes. He turned around and pushed his wet nose under my hand, asking for a pet on the head, then shimmied up to lick my neck and chin. I knew not to move, only to enjoy this moment together in the sun.
It felt familiar, as if he had been here before with his lost friend, stopping to honor the sun's rays falling to the earth. It was grounding. For once, I wasn't doing anything but being with him. He was no longer electricity in the wind. He was the sun meeting the earth.
I walked the rest of the dogs. Maybe I'd made a difference for him.
That evening, I walked in the door, kicked off my shoes, and stood in the living room to check my email. There was one from the shelter.
Lionel's time was ending.
Surprise came first, though not really. Then the hope and pride I'd carried home that day, gone. And a question I couldn't shake: was I somehow responsible?
But that day was a good one.
Did that matter?
I woke the next morning still carrying the grief. No one really knows what I do at the shelter beyond walking the dogs and picking up the poo. As an animal communicator, I ask them what kind of home they'd like and whether they like the name they were given, but mostly I listen. I can usually walk away at the end of the day. But somewhere along the way, I had become attached.
Unsure whether Lionel was in spirit or in body, I decided to do what I do. Communicate with him. From a distance. I asked if there was anything he wanted to tell me, or anything that might help me make sense of the day before.
He said, Thank you for our day and for taking the time to see me.
It reminded me of the months before Stanley died. He didn't want much, just for me to be with him, as much for me as for him. Sometimes that meant everything going quiet, him in my lap by the window in the sun. Other times it was a deeper meeting in the space beyond the body, where he showed me there was more to learn.
That's what Lionel received, and what he shared.
Several days later, Lionel came to mind, and I decided to check in. I received a vision of him playing in the cosmos, wild and free.
I don't remember him as the current of wind I first met. I remember that wet nose leaning in for love, and the two of us melting into the sun.
Name has been changed to protect his privacy. View all Shelter Stories.
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Lesley Ames is a certified animal communicator and psychic medium based in the Pacific Northwest, and volunteers at her local animal shelter. She works remotely with clients in Seattle, Chicago, and worldwide, including the UK, Europe, and Australia. Find her at lesleyames.com.
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