Walter – our new puppy – shivered with fear standing on the examining table. She was at the Veterinary clinic to get her puppy shots. As Dr. D checked out every inch of her little puppy body a puzzled look spread across his face. Dr. D turned and gazed at me with a puzzled look.

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

Duh. Long pause.

“Yes, Doc. I know Walter is a girl dog. She’s named after our son’s friend’s Teddy Bear, Walter.”

Long silence.

“Oh.”

Dr. D didn’t seem to think Walter being a girl dog was nearly as funny as I did. No sense of humor I guess.

Dr. D was even less humored when we rushed Walter back to the veterinary clinic about a year later.

Walter had been hit by a truck.

Or should I say, Walter hit a truck.

Now this was back in the day before leash laws when dogs pretty much ran free through the neighborhood. Walter was visiting neighbors across the street, spreading her usual gift of good cheer. My kids kids came running out of our house. Walter took off like a rocket toward them –  not bothering to stop and look both ways before crossing Old Post Rd.

Brakes SHRIEKed!

Neighbors gasped.

THUMP!

Walter ever even saw that big ol’ black pickup truck.

She crashed into the passenger side door. The pickup skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out and ran to see if the dog was okay.

Walter lay in a crumpled heap on the side of the road, not moving.

When I got to her I thought she was a goner.

But out of the corner of her glazed over eye, Walter saw me.

Her tail started wagging!

That was the thing about Walter – she loved us. She was the most tail-wagging-lick-your-face- to tell-you-she-loves-you kind of dog you ever met.

But wagging tail or not, Walter was in rough shape.

Somehow we managed to transport her to the Veterinary Clinic. Dr. D examined her. X-rays were taken.

“She’s in bad shape. Fractured pelvis. Broken leg. Contusions, abrasions, internal injuries.”

“Can you save her?”

“Well, I won’t know until we do surgery. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

At this point I faced a moral dilemma. The medical care Walter needed would be very expensive. We were dirt poor. Even if we could somehow come up with the money to pay for the surgery and all that went with it, there was no guarantee it would be successful. No guarantee Walter would survive.

“Doc, we can’t afford all that. I think we might have to ….”

Dr. D put his hand on my shoulder.

“I understand.”

Then he continued, “But you know, when you take a pet you also take on the responsibility of caring for it. It’s always a hard choice and you have to balance out what you really think is best for your pet and for your family.”

Then Dr. D said, “It’s your decision.”

Dr. D stepped out of the exam room leaving me alone with Walter.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Her tail wagged.

So one week and a couple thousand dollars later, the Singley family crammed into our little blue Datsun 210 – Sandy and me, Pete and Beth, our cats Brandy and Leroy, and a heavily bruised, bandaged and stitched up Walter the Wonder Dog.

We were headed to New Hampshire for vacation.

At Camp Singley.

Coming Soon…Part Three of Walter the Wonder Dog

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