RIP Walter T.

I began this post a few weeks ago, but it took a while for me to finish it. I guess I wasn’t ready. I’m still not.

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There are good days, there are bad days, and then there was today.

This morning around 4:00 am, Wally the Poodle lay down on the floor next to my husband and died. I received the message from 1500 miles away.

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We didn’t know much about this strange looking animal when he came to live with Bill and me almost five years ago. I’d been toying with the idea of getting a dog but was terrified of taking care of another living creature ever since the great turtle debacle of 2003. A friend encouraged me to check out a rescue group, so I went online, and that’s where I met the love of my life—a stinky little poodle named Wally.

Wally had been removed from a trailer where he lived confined to a 10′ x 10′ room with 27 other dogs for years. They had never been groomed or cared for. Some dogs’ toenails had never been trimmed and were so long that they curled under their paws and grew into the bottoms of their feet. They lived in their own filth, and when they were finally rescued, authorities had to burn the trailer to the ground.

Fortunately, Ponderosa Pomeranian Rescue moved all the dogs from Granbury, Texas to Austin. The ones who survived were photographed and put online like furry little mail-order brides. When they found him, Wally’s hair was matted and in dreadlocks down to the floor. He was the saddest little dog I’d ever seen. It was love at first sight.

Bill was bewildered when I showed him a picture of what appeared to be a freshly shorn rodent. He simply could not see the potential I saw in this pitiful, frightened creature; so with a shrug of his shoulders, he gave the silent “okay” as I headed down to visit him at an adoption event. I found Wally cowering in a corner of the pen, surrounded by yapping dogs. He leaned into my hand as I bent down to pet him. I scooped him up into my arms, and that was it.

The volunteers in charge of the adoption day encouraged me to check out some of the other dogs and not get too attached to one too soon, but I had no interest. I placed my little guy back into the pen as I was called over to interview with the woman in charge of adoptions.

I described the perfect dog to the interviewer: We wanted a pet that didn’t bark, didn’t shed, didn’t need much exercise, didn’t do much… basically we wanted a fish. The interviewer listened closely, and at the end of my description, she wrote “WALLY”  in big letters on the adoption form and underlined it twice.

Walter T. Dog came to live with us on September 23, 2005. We were led to believe our new border was 4 years old, but after one glance our veterinarian told us he was more like 8-10. He barely had any teeth, and his breath smelled strongly of rotting shrimp. Bill the Husband was not amused. On the bright side, if anyone was worried about Wally becoming aggressive (hilarious thought), we could reassure them with the knowledge that the worst he could do was get ’em with his tooth.

We started out with introductions in the backyard. He crept around cautiously, lifting his little feet up high as he explored. Apparently he didn’t know what grass was. As nervous as the little poodle was, he couldn’t have felt more afraid than I did. I had no idea what to do, so I worried. His first day was rough—he got a bath and an enema. He probably thought he was better off in a trailer in Granbury.

Bill said he didn’t want Wally in the bed or on the furniture. That first day I came home from running an errand to find Bill on the couch with Wally asleep on his chest. Later that night when Wally began to cry, Bill  accused me of being a cruel mother as he tucked the little guy into our bed, where he slept every night until his health began to fail a few months ago.

Wally wasn’t a normal dog. He hated/resisted walks so much we used to joke about taking him out for his evening drag. More than once we found the end of his leash sticking out from under the bed. Sometimes he’d sit in his dog bed, and we’d drag him and the bed all the way to the front door.

Wally was a true mama’s boy. He liked sitting on my lap while I worked but always rested his head on the space bar, so I had to limit that activity. When he wasn’t on my lap, he was sleeping by my desk or following me like a shadow. I think he was afraid that when he couldn’t see me I had actually disappeared from the earth. Bill said that whenever I was gone, Wally would sit on the couch and face the door until I came home.

Though he may have been a mama’s boy, Bill was the one Wally had wrapped around his little paw. We went to a dog groomer a grand total of one time before Bill went out and bought a grooming kit (with DVD), in hopes of making the process less stressful for our boy. The three of us would go out to the front yard—Wally standing submissively on a bistro table—while his mom and dad hacked that poor guy into what can only be described as a skinned baby lamb with a mustache. One time I suggested that we leave him a little puffy on top but clip his feet, which earned him the nickname “Walter Pinfoot.”

Wally feared children almost as much as Bill and I did. He’d hide under the bed whenever my “spirited” niece came to visit—the permanent worried look on his face becoming more intense than usual—yet children loved him. Everyone loved Wally. He was like a stuffed animal who’d come to life—only stinkier. Wow, did that boy stink. We called it P.O.—Poodle Odor—and I can’t tell you how much I miss his fetid breath waking me up in the morning. What I’d give for another poodley wake-up call.

He wasn’t a noisy dog—I remember the first time he barked—it surprised him so much he actually jumped a little. Even so, this house has become awfully quiet without him, and I’ve realized it’s because I don’t laugh as much. Not a day went by—no matter how challenging—during which I didn’t laugh because of that little dog.

My heart grew three sizes when Wally came to live with us, and now that he’s gone it’s all stretched out in there. I don’t see how anyone else—poodle or otherwise—could ever fill that space again. People keep telling me how lucky he was to have us come to his rescue, but they’re wrong, because we’re the lucky ones. We’re the ones who were rescued.

Bill buried Wally in the backyard outside our bedroom window. He said it was so we could all sleep together again. Somehow I find strange comfort in that. Sweet dreams, little fella. We miss you.