This “backstory” is a part of a collection of articles that describes some of the obstacles that Seven Days reporters faced while pursuing Vermont news, events and people in 2024.
His eyes, black as a shark’s, stared into mine, defying comprehension. Like some magician having the worst day of his life performing at a Holiday Inn conference room, I reached my hands toward the beast, trying my best to focus my mind on reading his.
Alas, nothing. He stared back at me, a ziggurat of secrecy as his tongue slipped out of his gaping maw to leave a long trail of saliva along my hand, still reaching out toward his head. My good friend, former roommate and designated dog nephew, Wilbur, had just received the results of his session with pet psychic Amy Wild. The Starksboro animal and spirit medium had offered to perform a reading on the 80-plus pound pit bull for a story I was writing for our annual Animal Issue.
The tale generated strong opinions among my friends and coworkers. (I write about how the insurance industry is kneecapping live music across the country, and not a peep. I talk to someone who says she can tell if your cat is angry at you, and my inbox overflows. Figures.) Some were wary of writing about something as woo-woo as a pet psychic, who could be seen as taking advantage of people desperate to communicate with their furry loved ones. Others just wanted me to find out if it was all on the level, perhaps eager to surrender their own pets for closer examination.
I already knew I wouldn’t find a concrete answer — I know, shocking, a music journalist failed to disprove telepathy — and was really just curious for any insight into Wilbur, one of the strangest, least logical creatures I’ve encountered. Why does he always bury himself in my dirty clothes hamper? What is he thinking when he stares off into space? Is he contemplating his own existence? Working up a fart? Both?
Wild’s insights on Wilbur didn’t necessarily solve the big boy’s mysteries, but they gave me plenty of food for thought. According to her, he kept stealing my clothes to feel close to me. And though that didn’t explain why he’d, you know, eat said clothes, I took an old, very past-its-prime Joy Division T-shirt from my drawer and presented it to the dog as an offering.
“Here, Wilbs,” I told him as he watched, bemused. “This is yours now, OK? You don’t have to keep sneaking out of my room with socks.”
A lone line of drool fell on the shirt. The next day, the shirt remained on the floor in that exact spot, unmolested or chewed. Wilbur laid nearby, helping himself to a black Nike sock, freshly fetched from the hamper.
The original print version of this article was headlined “Most Inscrutable Source”
This article appears in Dec 25, 2024 – Jan 7, 2025.
Got something to say?
Send a letter to the editor and we'll publish your feedback in print!
