Dog Is My Co-Pilot: Lent When your dog gives up control, treats, and the moral high ground – one paw at a time.

 

Lent, for the uninitiated – or for those who were raised by wolves – is the church season in which we stare down our appetites and decide which of them could use a little less airtime.

It’s forty days of restraint, reflection, and regrettable self-improvement. Traditionally, humans give things up. Chocolate. Social media. Sarcasm (which, let’s be honest, never sticks).

This year, however, Lent has gone to the dogs. Or rather, to my dog—my co-pilot, Winnie Lew.

Here’s the thing about Lent: it sneaks up on you like a hymn you thought you knew until you hit verse three and realize the tune has opinions.

As an Episcopal priest, Lent arrives every year whether I’m ready or not. Ash Wednesday shows up with its smudge of truth, reminding me that I am dust and that my calendar is lying to me.

Lent asks hard questions. What will you give up? What will you take on? What needs loosening in your life?

This year, the answer is obvious. My dog, Winnie Lew, is giving things up for Lent.

Winnie Lew is my rescue Episocopup, which is Episcopalian for “mixed breed of mysterious origin who believes like the church matriarch she belongs in charge of everything.”

She is spunky, stubborn, deeply affectionate, and if she could talk, she would be sarcastic in the way only Southern women and very small dogs can be. Winnie is my constant companion – at home, on walks, during sermon prep, and sometimes under my desk at church like a furry footnote to the Book of Common Prayer.

Winnie takes Lent very seriously. Not because she understands it, but because it has begun to interfere with her lifestyle.

Treats (or: The Moral Order of the Universe)

Winnie Lew believes treats are not rewards but rights. They are not optional. They are part of the moral order of the universe. She receives a treat for sitting, for staying, for breathing, and occasionally for looking at me with what can only be described as theological intensity.

For Lent, Winnie is giving up some treats. Not all. Let’s not get crazy. This is Lent, not the apocalypse. But fewer treats means Winnie has begun to audit my behavior more closely.

She watches my hands. She follows me into the kitchen. She sighs loudly when I open a cabinet and it is not that cabinet. Her face says, “I thought we loved each other.”

Shedding (Aspirational Holiness)

Yes, I know. This is aspirational. But Lent is nothing if not a season of holy imagination.

Winnie Lew sheds with evangelical zeal. Her fur is not content to remain on her body; like the Gospel, it feels called to spread the good news to my furniture, my floors, my clergy collars, and at least one casserole at church. I vacuum. I lint-roll. I surrender. Winnie sheds anyway, because shedding is who she is and because she can.

For Lent, Winnie is giving up shedding. Or at least pretending to. We are beginning modestly: fewer dramatic full-body shakes immediately after grooming. Less casual fur distribution during hugs.

A slightly reduced output that says, I see your suffering, and I choose mercy. Yesterday I wore black and survived until noon. This is nothing short of a miracle, and I believe it counts.

Paw Licking (A Nightly Devotional)

If you have never lived with a dog who licks her paws at night, imagine someone slowly stirring pudding with a wet spoon while you are trying to sleep.

Winnie’s paw licking is a nightly ritual, a contemplative practice, a kind of canine rosary. She licks. She pauses. She licks again. She stares into the middle distance as if remembering a former life.

For Lent, at my urging, Winnie is giving up extended paw-licking sessions. She still licks, but briefly. Thoughtfully. Like someone who has promised not to doomscroll after 10 p.m. and absolutely means it until 10:07.

Judging Other Dogs

Winnie attends doggie day camp, which she enjoys in theory. In practice, she has strong opinions. Puppies are too enthusiastic. Doodles are suspiciously cheerful. Anyone smaller than her is questionable, and anyone bigger is clearly compensating for something.

For Lent, Winnie is giving up judgment. Or at least vocal judgment. She no longer issues commentary when another dog passes her. She practices what I believe is Episcopalian restraint: quiet observation paired with internal critique. Progress is progress.

The Bed

I want to be clear: Winnie Lew does not share a bed. She occupies it. I am allowed a narrow strip on the edge, like a monastic cell. At night, she stretches with the confidence of someone who pays the mortgage. She radiates heat. She dreams vividly. She kicks.

For Lent, Winnie is giving up total bed domination. This lesson has been harder for both of us than anticipated.

She is learning to curl up instead of sprawl. She is experimenting with allowing me to turn over without consequences. She is discovering that love does not require full physical control. She is discovering that boundaries can be holy. We are all surprised.

Giving Up Control

Finally—and most painfully—Winnie Lew is giving up being in charge.

Winnie likes to supervise. She supervises meals, walks, phone calls, sermons, prayers, and bathroom visits. She supervises my mood. She supervises my schedule. She supervises my soul.

Lent invites us to loosen our grip on control, and my co-pilot is learning – slowly – that the world will not collapse if she is not managing it.

Some days she succeeds. Some days she does not. That, too, is Lent.

What Winnie Lew is teaching me – through her reluctant sacrifices and accidental holiness – is that Lent isn’t about perfection.

It’s about paying attention. It’s about noticing the habits that cling to us like fur on black pants. It’s about laughing at ourselves, even as we try again.

Winnie Lew may not understand Lent. But she understands love, routine, grace, and the deep, abiding comfort of showing up every day exactly as you are – shedding, licking, sighing, and learning, slowly, to let go.

And if she slips? If she sneaks a lick, steals a crumb, judges a doodle?

Well. There’s always Easter.

Amy George is an Episcopal priest in Selma, Alabama, where she shares an office with her volunteer pastoral care assistant, Winnie Lew. When not doing God’s work, you can find Amy doing Dog’s work–vacuuming a never ending supply of dog hair, chauffeuring Winnie Lew, and being the provider of endless dog treats. Amy feels blessed to have no fear of ever being attacked by squirrels, UPS delivery people, or small lizards.