Walter! Come. Here.

Walter in his kingdom.

Yesterday afternoon, Sherrod stood on the back deck and called for me to join him. It had just stopped raining and I assumed he wanted me to behold yet again his freshly weeded garden.

This has been our ritual for weeks now. Any change in the garden—from a single sprout to another battle won in the war of the weeds—prompts an invitation to join my husband at soil’s edge to celebrate his latest conquest. Yesterday, I figured he was calling me to marvel at how rich the soil looks when it’s wet.

This time, though, Sherrod was pointing to the opposite corner of our backyard, to the boulder that is so big and deeply embedded that no excavator will try to remove it.

“Look at him,” Sherrod said, beaming.   

Walter, our ten-pound rescue dog, had scaled the boulder’s heights and was standing on top of it. He is a mix of Yorkie and poodle, and currently in need of a haircut. Perched on top of that mountain, he looked like a fuzzy little wart on a giant backside.

“You mean he looked regal,” Sherrod just said.

Sure, honey. (This is why I seldom allow him to read over my shoulder.)

We don’t know why Walter likes this boulder so much. He was named for Walter Reuther, the union leader and civil rights activist. Maybe this is why our little Walter feels so mighty up there, we tell ourselves. We may have said that out loud on occasion, but look, it’s a campaign year. We hear crazier theories every week.

Last summer, I shared a reader’s criticism regarding the names of Walter and our other dog, Franklin, who was named for FDR.

“It’s sick that your dogs have human names,” the reader wrote. “Sick.”

I responded to the reader by sharing this photo, which is the cover of our boys’ 2019 debut country music album. I haven’t heard from that guy since. I’m a little hurt he never asked for the title.

Once Walter makes it to the top of that boulder, it’s hard to get him down. He leaves when he’s good and ready. No amount of yelling or bribery works. What the neighbors must think as we holler.

“Walter! Cheese!”

“Walter! Carrot!”

“Walter! Whimzees!”

If it’s late at night, I sometimes resort to yelling, “Hi, Sue!” I do this even though our friend Sue Klein, Walter’s other favorite human in the world, is nowhere in sight. He jumps off the boulder, dashes the length of the lawn and leaps across the threshold into our kitchen. Then he looks at me as if I’ve just confessed to murder.

You may think less of me for tricking Walter like this. You come get him off that boulder at 11 p.m.

Sherrod does not approve of my fooling Walter in this way. It’s “disrespectful.” This is a risky opinion for a husband who spends so many weeknights 361 miles away in Washington, D.C.

I get it. He and Walter have a bond.

It’s the hair.

Also, they are inseparable during grace at dinner, like church buddies. This is true throughout dinner, but it starts with a prayer.

To that I say, amen and amen.

Photo by Karen Sandstrom.