WALTER

    

          Today is the tenth anniversary of finding our dog Walter.  John and I were working for Rosedale Products, in a strip mall on Highway 41 in Coarsegold.  I was on my way to Goldmine Pizza to buy some taco soup. A man I’d never seen before said, “Is that your dog?”

          I turned around and saw a medium-sized, black-and-white dog  following me.  I said, “No. I’ve always wanted a dog but my husband doesn’t like dogs.”

          The man said, “Well, he sure looks like he wants to be your dog.”

          I looked at the dog. He panted up at me, ears slightly raised, deep brown eyes imploring.  I switched directions and led him back to the office.

          Nan’s desk was to the left of the front door. Mine was straight ahead behind a line of black file cabinets. I had a view of the creek. A white soji screen created a bit of privacy.

          To the right of the front door was Cyndy’s old couch, covered with a pink and blue sheet. The dog jumped up on to the couch.

          “Who’s that?” Nan said, getting up.  The dog licked her hand when she petted him.

          I told her I’d found him and was going to the market to get him some food.  I returned ten minutes later. The poor thing was famished. He was also thirsty, lapping up two bowls of water.

          I phoned my friend Pat, who fosters dogs and cats for the local SPCA. She came over. “He’s a good dog,” she said, sitting on the couch beside him.  I had hoped she’d take him home with her, but she already had six cats.

          The funny thing about memory is that I don’t remember John’s comments about the dog until that evening, even though his office was right there too. But with his door closed he was in a world of his own.

          I must have taken the dog home in the back of the Explorer. Or was it the Jeep? I drove him to our house on Quartz Mountain, which was only a year old.

          I tied the dog up in the patio with a clothesline. I hadn’t yet learned that he chewed through everything except metal.  It was a warm summer night.  John had his shirt off.  I said, “I didn’t imagine myself with this sort of dog. I thought I’d have a small, brown, female dog, not a big mutt.”

          John said, “You married a mutt.”

          “So, do you want to keep him?” I asked John.   He must have said, “He’s your dog,” because even after ten years he has not brought himself to like the dog. I named him Walter, after Walter Matthau a favorite actor, who used to be seen ambling down Chatauqua to State Beach.

          When I’m out of town and John takes care of Walter, he throws sticks for him in the “side yard”, the vacant lot next door, instead of taking him for walks.

          I have mixed feelings about the dog. He was a lot more fun when he ran free every day. It was such a delight to watch him gallop on the open trails, head high, smiling.

          Now Walter spends most of his time lolling on the floor within eye shot of me.  At six o’clock he tugs me from bush to bush on our blistering hot afternoon walks.