Walter died, unexpectedly, in September. He deserved so much better than he got. It has been impossibly painful to even think about, but too much time is passing now without his proper tribute—and he deserves better than that, too.
Walter was one of the world’s best dogs. We rescued him at just 10 weeks old. I saw his photo in a rescue ad, and knew he was ours. He was supposed to be a small chihuahua, but quickly expanded into the mini horse so many fell in love with. Part chihuahua, part wiener dog, and apparently (at least according to the genetic test), 2% pitbull.
His government name was Walter Matthau, because as a baby, he had giant bags under his eyes. But when his snout grew, it took the bags with it. His head was too small for his body, which was long and dense. He had Tom Selleck chest hair, Edwardian sideburns, Flamenco dancer arm fringe, and the floofiest Farrah Fawcett tail. Under his chin was the softest spot to have ever existed on earth, and his jowls were squishy. But he shot to international stardom for his super-fancified Grinch feets, which gave such flair to his trademark sassy swagger. His front feet pointed outward, and they were too big for his body. He had meaty front legs which perfectly supported his bounce and waddle. It was hard not to chew on them - or his ears, for that matter. He was happiest with all of his hair and curls cut off, but with every haircut, his coloring made it look like he had a farmer’s tan.
He was the perfect little brother to Archie and Lucy. As a baby, he liked to hoard toys and eat everything that wasn’t nailed down. When he and Archie were younger, they would wrestle constantly, and he loved the “got your nose” game. And he was always the one to slide up next to the other animals for a nap, or to offer or seek comfort. He loved sitting upright on the couch with his front leg on the arm.
He eventually spent a lifetime of vet visits being told he was overweight (as one vet tech called him, a “succulent roaster”), but really, he was just Walter. He was one of a litter of two, and the other puppy was a string bean - so our hypothesis had always been that Walter ate the rest of the litter in utero.
He was such a gentle, sensitive little soul. He reacted to almost everything, and his eyes expressed every thought. He was easily scared, finding any toilet to be the perfect hiding place… and hiding places were his specialty. We’d often say “eyes on Walter” and go find him, just to make sure he was okay - he was invariably tucked in some corner of a closet or randomly under a bed.
Yet, Walter also very brave. He was the only one of our dogs to ever voluntarily go into the ocean or river, and he loved chasing seagulls like it was his job. With the spirit of a warrior, Walter always did security prowls on potty breaks, and enjoyed chasing any animal he saw, with zero regard for his own life. He only had one kill to his name - a field mouse in the backyard, who we think actually broke its neck running into him. Nevertheless, we gave Walter credit, and he was proud.
Walter was routinely the instigator of dog barking shenanigans among our crew. He was a steadfast defender of home and hearth, yelling at and nipping the ankles of anyone who dared enter. Despite this, he often became the favorite among guests because they knew it was an honor for him to warm up to them… and usually, he did - particularly if bribed with treats.
His enthusiasm rarely waned, whether it was for dinner, a walk, or just to come back inside. He was a giant love sponge - demanding of constant pets, but also very generous with stinky kisses. He had the worst breath to ever mix with oxygen and carbon dioxide. He was a perfect cuddler, and he often would put his head on a pillow and cover himself with a blanket. He also liked to kick us when he slept. He smelled like naps in the best way, and when asleep, he was usually belly-up and spread eagle.
He absolutely loved the sun and would stay outside as long as he could. He also loved full-contact head massages and all-over face kisses. And he was sock-obsessed.
He had more nicknames than most. Wawa, Wazoo, Walterooni, Zoodles, Wisenewski, Waz, Baby Bubba, Bubbarooni, Baby Buddha, and Sweet Potato were among them. My favorite joke was to make him dance to Biggie, while changing the words to “I love it when you call me Big Wawa.”
He was always so gentle and unimposing that it’s sometimes easy to pretend that he’s still just hanging out somewhere in the closet, or that he’s going to be making his trademark late appearance to go outside, or that he’s getting ready to huff at me for being up too late, or that he’s just behind some bushes, capturing every scent he can. Those “pretend times” are when the pain relents a little bit.
As I age and collect more and more losses, I wonder why we set ourselves up for this kind of grief and agony. But the truth is that it is the price for having spent almost thirteen years with such a sweet, unconditionally loving, perfect, sassy little soul. It was a gift and a privilege to have spent his entire life with him, and I hope he knew how deeply loved and treasured he was, and how profoundly we miss him and feel his absence every second of every day. He was the perfect sidekick, and there will never be another like him.
