In 2005 Ward and I decided to adopt a dog after my 11-year-old dog, Bela, died. I

Bela the beautiful

thought I would never want another dog and if I did it wouldn’t be just two months after my best pal ever died.

Ward was skeptical, “I think this is grief talking”.

“Yeah, it is grief talking, Captain Obvious” I said, “I’m a mess I need to find someone in worse shape than me”.

We went to meet him. Life had not been kind to him. He was under-weight by fifteen pounds. He slunk more than he walked. No eye contact. It was clear he had been hit by the way he ducked down when we would pet him or walk into the same room as him. He didn’t know words like “eat,”  “treat,”  “out,”  “walk,”  “toy”. He ate as if every meal were his last meal.

He had no name because he had been found tied to a tree. It was undoubtedly the kindest thing his previous owners had ever done for him. He was clearly a bigger mess than me.

On the way home from the shelter with him in the back seat eyeing us warily we argued about what to name him.

“I think Sherman is a great name for him” Ward said.

“Ugh. No. If we go that route I might be convinced to name him Grant” I said, “What about Sasha?”

“Absolutely not!”

We ended up naming him Walt because we love Walt Whitman.

Walt

Walt was not just a big mess he was fucking crazy. He was terrified of women and attacked me several times. He went through three windows and three trainers. The last one did the trick helping us make Walt into a dog. This is her website: Gooddogz Training

After he started getting better he was Ward’s dog more than mine which was Ok by me. He couldn’t be around other dogs without attacking most of them. After a few years I sensed he wanted a friend. I started profiling what dogs he did better with. I came up with his type: female, older and small.

I started trolling again. I found Coco after a few weeks. She was an eight-year-old mini dachshund. I was relieved we wouldn’t have to change her name. She had been

Coco

brought in with 15 other pure bred dogs. The shelter thought it might have been an informal puppy mill. That seemed likely after we discovered Coco  had never been on a walk preferring to pee and poop in doors and eating it all.

The shelter recommended we bring Walt when we met Coco to see if it was a go. All the dogs in the shelter were in kennels except for Coco who had a bed behind the reception desk. If we changed her name they suggested “Princess” would be a good one.

They hit it off famously. Walt now had a dog.

Somewhere around year four Walt became my dog. He followed me everywhere. He would place his head in my lap. He gave me kisses on my hand. He was happy to see me when I came home.

Then Thorin came along and I lost him. He started out sleeping by his crib and now the rug in his room. When Thorin has an asthma attack during the night Walt puts his head on Thorin’s lap while he uses the nebulizer.

Walt has been wacked in the head, hit with a bat, had a playhouse dropped on him, had food and beverages spilled on him and his tailed pulled more times than I can count. Each time Walt walked away. No anger. No fear. Maybe he knew a little boy before. He loved Thorin now.

I misplaced Thorin briefly. Walt was on the job though. You can read about that here if you’d like: What’s that Lassie…

Today Walt is grey in the face and has arthritis in his back but his heart is strong. At 15ish the Vet calls him a freak of nature. He is old for a German shepherd.

A boy and his dog

We have seen Walt go from being a depressed, frightened and frightening dog to being

a sweet, funny, loving one. Today is the 10th anniversary of bringing home the former Shultzy and now Walt-the-dog.

We love you Walt!

P.S. Thorin wants to know if we will be having cake.