Wilson

When you feel that plummeting exhaustion, plan a trip to New York City and hope the change of scenery will dispel the disquietude that clenches in your body. Blame the isolation of the pandemic for the heightening sense of anxiety that is advancing on you as insidiously as middle age. Convince yourself that Covid is an acceptable excuse, a blanket defense, then recognize that this is specious reasoning but concede anyway because it’s easier than frisking the fringes of your psyche for some other plausible cause. Ignore, with an olympic strength, the idea that some ruinous neurosis is lurking behind your fear.

Begin by preparing for your trip by panicking about leaving your pet, (Wilson). Then hatch a plan to bring your pet Wilson and convince your partner to get on board with said plan. When met with resistance, appeal to your fragile state: point out that your pet is your rock and sense of security; explain that whereas new situations used to arouse excitement now they only incite vague feelings of inadequacy and an inarticulate fear; disclose that novelty makes you tense, novelty makes you timid. Declare that it will be better if Wilson goes too.

When that fails, refuse to go unless Wilson goes too.

Continue to prepare for your trip. Book a five-star hotel by filtering for pet friendliness. Call the hotel and confirm pet friendliness, stumble and stammer when they say Yes, we love dogs. Hang up and hesitate about whether or not to divulge that you’re not traveling with a dog. Decide on the equivocation of the phrase what about small caged animals? Call back and bite your nails whilst you measure the time that elapses before they respond yes, that’s fine too. Several days later, get upset when on the third call they inform you for the first time that there is a $100 pet fee. Be grateful you didn’t tell them your name. Allow your sense of righteousness to be vexed and determine, out of principle, not to mention Wilson during check-in.

On the day of the trip be tense and nervous, feel ill-equipped to face the world. Plan for every eventuality. Place your collection of luggage, two carryon size for you and four duffels for Wilson, in the trunk of the car next to your partner’s sparsely packed canvas tote. In the car, wish you weren’t going. Scheme a plan to hide Wilson upon arrival. Tell yourself it’s not about the money - (it’s not about the money!) Agonize over your decision and fret over how Wilson’s presence will be received.

Resent all humans for being speciesists. Resent them for the inconsistency with which they assign moral worth based on species membership. Recall bitterly people’s reactions to Wilson: your father, your friends, even your veterinarian - especially your veterinarian! Snort in disgust when you remember her saying, in the distinct tone of one of those non-apology apologies, sorry, we don’t see ___, they’re considered exotics. Feel poignantly the injustice on Wilson’s behalf.

Grip Wilson’s little red carrier protectively and peer inside obsessively to watch him rearrange himself in the small space. At least ten times during the first ten minutes of the drive, unfasten the locking mechanism and slide your index finger through the narrow opening at the top, feel microbursts thunder in your heart when his warm tongue greets it and the rough grooves rasp the frame of your fingernail. Smile at the comfort this gives you - but smile inwardly only so as not to split the scab of resentment that has begun to form over the day.

Be irrationally angry at the world around you. Feel the desire to shout strangle your throat but remain silent and sigh loudly several times instead. Doubt whether you’ll get as far as the interstate before you demand to go home. At the intersection for the interstate, watch the light turn green and feel the car accelerate toward the sign for I-87, notice your anxiety accelerate with it.

When a crush of confused cars obstructs the diamond interchange for I-87 North and I-87 South, catch the little red carrier as it slides forward on your lap and curse America’s confounding custom of listing cardinal directions on major roadway signs. On the immediate horizon, see a braid of red taillights materialize and listen to horns sound impatiently. Detect the driver up ahead who has the unfortunate realization that he’s in the wrong lane, watch somebody flick him the bird and hear the gesture verbalized too. Wince reflexively at this abuse but still say to yourself what deplorably bad driving, and wonder how it is that so many people have so little awareness of their position relative to their surroundings. Pause on this thought and think back on something you read once, by a professor of Geography, about humanity’s aversion to reflecting on it’s own positionality. Consider the truth of this statement. Purse your mouth in a self-satisfied smirk and realize that this little nugget applies across all scales of the human dilemma - from Homo sapiens’ obliviousness on roadways, to its spurious belief in the supremacy of the human species - heedless of its shared evolutionary genesis and ignorant of its less-than-apex, prosaically-average position on the food chain, (somewhere between pigs and anchovies).

With your eyes back on the road, follow the finger-giving assailant as he speeds away and witness the blue and white coexist sticker on the back left bumper become indecipherable in the distance. Declare that society is deprived of sympathy these days. Lament that everyone has their inveterate ideas and impressions, and that no one really knows how to find their bearings amongst all the conflicting opinions. Warn your partner that you’re about to wax poetic and then wax poetic. Express that humanity puts the emphasis on the wrong metaphorical syllable, insist that it accentuates our difference to the detriment of our affinity, chronicle how consistently it conflates tolerance and respect.

When you’re tired of hearing yourself and when the traffic starts up again, cede to the motion and allow it to suspend your train of thought.

Miles down the road, after you exit to the right with all the other city-bound commuters, after this new orientation beams a refracted band of brilliance through the passenger window and burns your thigh, bend at the waist and attentively place the carrier at your feet, shielding it from the summer sun. Scrounge around for a scarf and lay it gingerly over the carrier, taking care not to block the ventilation slits. Remark how Wilson settles, seemingly thankful for the shaded safety of the footwell.

Agonize some more over what to do about Wilson. Worry a loose thread at the hem of your shirt. Commit to smuggling in Wilson; tell yourself, the world isn’t ready, especially not New York City. Recollect something else the geographer said: Cities in particular are unequivocal reflections of human privilege, regulated to maintain their functioning in the service of human interest. Pull open the sun visor and yank the hinged flap forcefully towards you, criticize a blemish in the vanity mirror. Return to thinking about Wilson. Reason that Wilson’s species is unequivocally not in the service of NYC residents’ interests - therefore, you have to smuggle in Wilson. Command the courage to do it, then cave to cowardice. Then command and cave again. Eventually, give up thinking about Wilson.

Sink into your seat and soften your vision. See the vehicles flow fluidly along the six-lane Brooklyn Queens Expressway towards the cable-stayed Kosciuzko Bridge. On the bridge, slacken your jaw, placidly observe the urban neighbourhoods from the elevated alignment of the beltway. Be aware of nothing more than the white whoosh of wind streaming past, but subconsciously scan all creviced corners for the ebony shapes of Wilson’s wild brethren.

A quarter mile from your exit, get stuck in standstill traffic. Maneuver into the right-hand lane. Approach your exit at a crawl, (a quarter mile takes patience). Spot a pigeon on the concrete barrier dividing the westbound lanes from a pedestrian path. See it spy a tasty morsel in a lump of waste. Watch it hop down, indifferent to the nearby hazard, as serenely as the mourning doves that alight in the sanctuary of your verdant garden back home. Fixate on this juxtaposition of a distant reality. Contemplate the pigeon, this avian species only moderately more tolerable than cockroaches or mice. Bear witness to how well it manages in the existing social ecology. Observe it peck and bop, subsisting on the scavenged shavings of the human species, corroborating the continuity of man and animal. Think about the outright hostility humans feel toward particular groups of nonhuman animals - the vermin. Without knowing why, recall the coexist sticker receding in the distance. Exhale a sound of scornful derision.

With a chemical jolt glimpse a red dodge challenger approaching in the side view mirror, notice it barreling down the shoulder, its grill painted like that of an apex predator. Glance back at the pigeon, jabbing in the breakdown lane. Discern the air displacement as the challenger charges past. Jerk back in alarm.

Suffer something sharp slap your spirit. Picture the pigeon, mangled wings at right angles, but do not look because the cavity of your heart is too crowded to contain that cruelty. Hear the clamour of the city ring in your ears. Say nothing, disappear into emotion. In a miasma of despair, peer into the little red carrier and see more humanity there then you see on the streets. Wonder at Wilson as he sleeps, his silhouette like the shape of a fingerprint whorl. Stare at the coral coloured veins that stand out against the hooded black of his furry head. Coo at him, wake him, gather him up. Feel the round of his soft belly fill the cup of your hand, be comforted by his weight in the scoop of your palm.

Admit that you feel beaten by all the heartlessness in the world. Say out loud that humankind has become so intolerant, so uncompromising. When your partner reaches over and touches your thigh, tell him being like us, living near us, wins them the enmity of the human race. Choke on the irony. Wish you were home.

See in Wilson a species that has informed so much of what it means to be human. Resolve then and there, as he nuzzles his triangular head into the crotch of your clavicle, to make Wilson’s presence known at the hotel. Decide to advocate for the underdog, or in this case the under___.

Still look the other way when you pass the pigeon.

***

When you arrive at your destination, transfer Wilson to a smaller, more inconspicuous carrier in case you lose your gumption. Sling it casually across your body like a purse. Walk into the swanky lobby. Swallow hard at the manicured perfection of the room. Steel yourself against the covetable opulence of the socialites lounging in it. Grit your teeth and ready yourself to break the standard of socially and culturally accepted norms. Feel the saccharine tone of the receptionist cause an upswing of sick in your stomach. Become aware of Wilson’s rising agitation.

Lose your gumption.

Checkin.

Upstairs, in your room, play with Wilson. When your partner watches you askance, thrust a hundred dollar bill in his face and say here, from Wilson.

On the last day of your trip, get drunk at the hotel’s outdoor bar. Spot a rat scurrying along the sidewalk. Initiate a conversation with the patrons of the neighbouring table after they yelp in surprise (or is it disgust?) Embarrass and encumber them with an unabridged phylogenetic history of Rattus norvegicus.

Before you leave, play some more with Wilson. Dutifully upload proof of his luxury vacation on Instagram. Tag the hotel and #FiveStarRat.