Walter, Year Five

He's everything we never wanted in a dog, lucky us

Walter, after last week’s grooming at Beauty in the Beast.

Five years ago this week, we adopted our little dog, Walter. He is our party dog. Every year around this time I say to Sherrod, no piñata. Every year he ignores me, and Walter whacks that stuffed squirrel until midnight.

I’ve written in the past about how Walter came to live with us, but his story gets better over time because of how much he has changed. The tiny street dog who started out as a snarlin’ cowboy has now become our Franklin’s home healthcare aide.

We first decided to adopt a second dog after our veterinarian encouraged us to do so, for Franklin’s sake. Franklin was nine weeks old when we came to live with us. So much energy and mischief—and always eager to own his crimes.

By age eight, though, Franklin started to slow down. I was worried because of course I was. It’s what I do.

“Get him a playmate,” our vet said, weaving her fingers through his locks of curls. “He’s the right age. It might even make him feel younger.”

This hurt my husband’s feelings a tiny bit, as he thought Franklin already had a playmate and his name was Sherrod Brown. I wove my fingers through Sherrod’s locks of curls and assured him that he would always be Franklin’s bestie.

Sherrod and Franklin, day three into his adoption.

A few days later, I launched an online search of rescue sites for Franklin’s canine companion. It took two weeks to find him. “He is a perfect fit for our family,” I told Sherrod.

The rescue organization had its doubts.

Many, many doubts.

We’d used a rescue site to adopt Franklin, but this one was different. An anonymous administrator instructed me to fill out a multi-page questionnaire that required our employment history, character references, and permission for our family vet to disclose the medical history of every pet we’d ever owned. I was also instructed to describe our day-to-day life with Franklin.

A column about our dog?  Whoo-boy, you bet! I included a quote from our 24-year-old daughter, uttered with a sigh just days after we had adopted him: “I remember when you used to look at me like that.”

More questions we had to answer:

Do we have a fenced-in yard?

Yes!

How long will our new dog be left alone?

Never! (Franklin, remember?)

Did we plan to get pregnant anytime in the near future?

I’m sorry, what? At my age, I assured them, pregnancy would be either God’s miracle or Satan’s revenge.

Did I have my husband’s “permission” to adopt again?

I’d always wondered how it would feel to be a woman in the 1950’s. Now I knew.

I mean: Yes.

In the section for additional comments, I pledged never to move from our house without sending them a map of the new floor plans. Full of optimism, I hit “send.” Almost immediately, the email response arrived. We would have to wait 10 days to find out if we were qualified to adopt the coveted pup, at which point he might already be adopted.

No thank you, heartbreak. I withdrew our application.

“If we’re meant to adopt another dog,” I told Sherrod, “that dog will find us.”   

Days later, our friend Karen Sandstrom sent this text message: Dog-related question when you have a moment or two.

Karen knew we wanted another dog, and that I had wimped out in trying to find one online. On a recent drive to work, she had spotted a tiny dog roaming the streets of Cleveland. She pulled over, opened the car door and in he jumped. This is not an unusual event for Karen, commonly known in these parts as the dog whisperer.

First, she tried to find the owner by knocking on doors in the neighborhood. One after another, the story was the same: They’d seen the little guy roaming the streets, but always alone. Karen and her older daughter, Katy, expanded their search, posting his photo on social media and contacting local shelters and the police. No one had reported this dog as missing.

Karen and Katy both had pets, so a friend agreed to keep Walter until they found a home for him. Before Karen knew that I had given up on online rescues, a man had agreed to adopt Walter. Their relationship lasted one whole day.

Walter had “whined all night,” the man said. I like to think that was Walter’s way of telling him, in his Paddington Bear voice, “So sorry, sir, but I’m afraid there has been a mistake. I’m supposed to live with a woman whose husband has hair just like mine.”

That’s when Karen sent that text.

On August 25, 2019, we met six-month-old Walter. He was everything we’d never wanted in a dog: small, yappy, and neurotic. He was two pounds underweight, dirtier than a softball at season’s end, and already in dire need of dental work.

We were in love.

Franklin’s affection for Walter took a bit longer to ignite. Within minutes of meeting him, un-neutered Walter attempted to launch a romance. Franklin was having none of this. I was worried about the loud and angry rejections of our normally docile boy, but Karen’s advice was wise: “Let go and let dog.” Very quickly, Walter learned that Franklin’s body would never be his wonderland.

This did not thwart Walter’s longings. For nearly three weeks, whenever Franklin was relaxing across the back of the sofa, Walter would stand a few inches behind him and start breakdancing.

“He’s very coordinated,” Sherrod said the first time he witnessed this spectacle. “Gotta give him that.” When the vet’s office called with an earlier opening for Walter’s surgery, a relieved Franklin high-pawed me.

In his first month with us, Walter couldn’t keep his eyes off me. Every time, I would say, “Yes, this is your home now.”

Franklin is now13. He is still occasionally frisky, but we can no longer ignore signs of aging. His vet recently described Franklin’s vision as seeing the world through two panes of glass with water flowing between them. He also is nearly deaf, and no longer hears us if he’s sleeping upstairs on our bed when we come through the door.

Walter is on it. He barks hello with such force that he becomes airborne and then flies upstairs to let Franklin know we are home. Get up, get up! They’re here! They’re here! Whenever I yell “treat” out the back door to bribe them into the house, Walter runs to the deck and then turns to bark at Franklin. Carrots, my man! She’s got carrots! Works every time.

At least twice a day, I scoop Walter into my arms. He nuzzles in until the top of his head—facing right, always—is wedged under my chin, and clasps his front paws around my right hand to keep it firmly on his belly. Like Piglet with Pooh, he just wants to be sure of me.

Occasionally, Sherrod will see this and shake his head.

“You two are ridiculous,” he says, grinning.

He’s just jealous. Of both of us.