Sammy's Witness: A Story of Truth, Loss, and Love Transformed

Sammy was a regal, silver-coated Weimaraner with a gentle heart and soulful eyes. In the late 1970s, she lived in a house in London, Ontario—once a convent, now an enchanted residence nestled near the University of Western Ontario. Her housemates were no ordinary pair. Ross and Marion Woodman were soulmates, known in their circles for an extraordinary marriage woven through with passion, intellect, and deep spiritual seeking.

Ross, a Professor of Romantic literature, cast spells with words. One of his former students, playwright David Young, described him as a “wizard who revealed the meaning of inner and outer worlds on fire.” His speech, said Young, could land “like a grenade.” Marion, after decades as a teacher, would go on to become a renowned Jungian psychoanalyst, whose work on feminine psychology touched millions. But before all that, they were simply Ross and Marion, two people in love, wrapped in the rhythm of shared dinners, long talks, and the quiet presence of a dog who lay each evening at the center of their art-filled living room.

This was Sammy's ritual—lying on the carpet between them, while Ross and Marion sat across from each other on separate couches, engaged in conversations that wandered through ideas, stories, and dreams. A circle of intimacy. A life in equilibrium.

But that equilibrium would rupture.

When Marion left her position at South Collegiate to pursue studies at the Carl Jung Institute in Zurich, Sammy’s quiet joy unraveled. Marion’s absences were long, and Ross, left in the echo of her presence, struggled. In solitude, he would turn off the lights and retreat into the darkness of his study and his spirit. And when Marion returned, the home did not instantly rejoice—it trembled. Their reunions were often turbulent: they had changed in the interim, and reconnection required the shedding of old skins. Sammy’s carpet became the stage where truths were spoken—and where truths, at times, shattered peace.

In one such conversation—one that would prove pivotal—Ross voiced a plea. Threatened by the distance that had entered their marriage, he asked Marion to renounce her journeys, to stay, to choose home over Zurich, love over individuation. "Love, honour, and obey," he reminded her.

Marion sat still, the silence thick with gravity. She turned inward and listened—not to fear, but to the deeper voice within. Then, softly, she responded with a single word:

No.

The air changed. Silence became a storm waiting to break. The tension was electric, unbearable.

And then—Sammy stood up, staggered, collapsed, rose again, and finally crashed into the wall. A heart attack silenced her. In that charged moment, something ancient played out. An old pattern shattered. And Sammy, sweet companion, took the hit. She was not just a dog. She was a witness. A vessel for what the human heart could not hold. In the language of myth, Sammy was the sacrifice.

The next morning, Marion sat alone in the living room, uncertainty clinging to the edges of her thoughts. Through the doorway, she saw Ross in the kitchen, making breakfast. Awkward. Hesitant. He dropped an egg. A small act, but symbolic—was this the end?

As she watched him, memories surged. Their walks with Sammy. The garden. Tenderness. Touch. Laughter. The warmth returned. First subtly, then all at once.

Ross turned toward her, sensing the shift.

“Marion,” he asked gently, “would you like a cup of coffee?”

That question, simple as it was, cracked open the path forward. Not back to what they were, but into something new—an alchemy forged in pain, but softened by choice. They would continue together, transformed. But not without cost. The moment of truth had a witness. The moment of truth had a price.

Years later, the story of that night and Sammy’s death was shared in Dancing in the Flames, a documentary on Marion’s life and thought. Her voice, Ross’s presence, and the haunting memory of Sammy’s fall—all part of a narrative about truth, transformation, and the archetypal storms we must weather when we dare to grow.

I first watched the film over a decade ago. It haunted me. It asked questions I had long avoided:

• How many difficult conversations had I run from?

• How many times had I swallowed my truth for the sake of comfort or cohesion?

• How often had I avoided rupture, not knowing that sometimes rupture is the only honest response?

  
  

These are not questions with tidy answers. But they are questions that travel with me still.

Now, when I see friends caught in the in-between—moments of unravelling or painful clarity—I sometimes tell Sammy’s story. Not to shock, but to honour what transformation often costs. And to remind us all:

To speak truth can feel like death.

But to withhold it can be a slower one.

And sometimes, the sacrifice is not a metaphor.

Next: Golden Connections: What Éliane Taught Me About Brightness, Gratitude, and the Wisdom Between

© 2025 Dominique Bel. Cardboard Wings: A Constellation of Becoming. All rights reserved.