Wolfsplaining

The wolf and I are taking a walk together through the forest, discussing our relationship. He says, “I wish you wouldn’t give me so much power over you. Why are you giving away your sovereignty?”

Umm… I think back over our many months together…

“Wolf, have you seen what fierce eyes you have?”

“All the better to watch over you with, my dear.”

“Wolf, have you seen what long claws you have?”

“All the better to keep you safe from the dangers of the world.”

“Wolf, have you seen what sharp teeth you have?”

“All the better to cut through the delusions about my character that you are projecting all over me.”

“But,” I protest, “you are intimidating in your wolfness. You growl, and pace, and I don’t understand what you are feeling.”

“Does that mean I don’t have feelings?”

I am trying to understand his wolfness. As we walk along, I unconsciously reach out a hand, wanting to hold his, but there is no hand reaching back. He walks on his paws, and has no hand to offer me. I still do not feel seen or heard. I try again.

“You know that so many wolves before you have told young girls which forest path they should take, have told them what they should be doing and thinking and feeling, have used them for their own pleasures and then eaten them up. That’s why we have learned to fear wolves, and are afraid to speak up when we feel violated.”

I would very much like to hear him say with a sad sigh, “Yes, I know that’s true, and I’m sorry for the behavior of my species. I do not want to be like that. Will you help me to see when I am behaving in ways that threaten your autonomy?”

But instead, he says, “Well, those young girls should not have given their power over to those wolves.”

I think that maybe if I took my sewing scissors out of my pocket and cut through the wolf’s fur, I might find a beautiful companion underneath, so I try. I stab the scissors into his hide, but it is impenetrable. My scissors are not sharp enough or I am not strong enough. All I have done is wounded him and myself in the effort.

I see that we have come to a crossroads in the forest. I say, “I don’t think I can walk on the same path as you any longer.” I am looking at his wounds, and mine, thinking that I would like to sew them up, but I have no needle or thread with me, only my scissors.

Licking his wounds, he looks at me sadly. “I will miss you,” he says, and turns to trot down the overgrown trail, disappearing into the forest shadows.