Walter the Wonder Dog, Part Two

Walter—our new puppy—stood on the cold, unforgiving exam table, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. It was vaccination day at the vet, and Walter was clearly frightened.

Dr. D, the ever-serious veterinarian, examined every inch of Walter’s wiggly little body. Suddenly, his face contorted into an expression of deep confusion. He looked up at me, squinting as if I had just handed him a jigsaw puzzle that was missing a piece.

“Sir… you do realize Walter is a female, right?”

Dramatic pause.

“Yes, Doc, I’m aware Walter is a girl. She’s named after my son’s friend’s teddy bear. Walter.”

An even longer silence followed.

“Oh.”

Dr. D was clearly unimpressed by our family’s progressive approach to dog naming. No sense of humor, that guy. But his disapproval would pale in comparison to what he felt about Walter a year later.

Walter vs. The Truck

Back in the glorious, pre-leash-law days, dogs roamed the land like furry little nomads, spreading joy, drool, and occasional chaos. Walter, being a social butterfly, had taken it upon herself to visit our neighbors across the street. But when my kids came bounding out of the house, Walter—blinded by love and enthusiasm—launched into a full-speed sprint toward them.

There was just one tiny problem.

She forgot to check for the giant, fast-moving, death machine known as a truck.

Brakes SCREECHED.

Neighbors gasped.

THUMP.

Walter didn’t even see that big ol’ black pickup before colliding with it like an overenthusiastic NFL linebacker.

The driver, wide-eyed and horrified, jumped out to check on her. Walter lay on the roadside, motionless. Lifeless. A tragic little heap of fur.

I ran to her, heart sinking. This was it.

But then… out of the corner of her glazed-over eye… she spotted me.

And her tail started wagging.

That’s the thing about Walter—she was the most “I-love-you-so-much-let-me-lick-your-face-right-now” kind of dog you’d ever meet. But even the happiest tail wag in the world couldn’t hide the fact that she was in bad shape.

The Vet’s Tough Talk

We rushed Walter to the vet, where Dr. D, still not laughing at her name, gave the grim update.

“She’s in rough condition. Fractured pelvis, broken leg, bruises, internal injuries…”

“Can you save her?”

“Well,” Dr. D said, peering at me over his glasses, “I won’t know until surgery. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

And then came the awkward part—the “wallet-emptying” part.

The medical bills were going to be astronomical. We were broke. Not just regular broke—”80s family-in-a-Datsun broke.” Even if we scraped the money together, there was no guarantee Walter would make it.

I sighed. “Doc… I don’t think we can afford—”

Dr. D put a hand on my shoulder like a wise old sage.

“I understand,” he said gravely. “But when you take in a pet, you take on the responsibility of caring for them.”

Then, after a dramatic pause worthy of an Oscar, he added, “It’s your decision.”

He stepped out, leaving me alone with Walter.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Her tail thumped.

She licked my face.

Dang it.

The Comeback of the Century

So, one week and a couple thousand credit card dollars later, the entire Singley clan—my wife Sandy, our kids Pete and Beth, two screaming cats (Brandy and Leroy), and a bruised, bandaged, slightly reassembled Walter—piled into our tiny blue Datsun 210.

Where were we headed?

Vacation.

New Hampshire.

At Camp Singley.

Because, naturally, after almost becoming roadkill, Walter the Wonder Dog was ready for adventure.

Coming Soon… Part Three: Walter Strikes Again.

Walter the Wonder Dog at Shaftoe’s Camp on Highland Lake