Through a series of circumstances, travel plans, and other things that are too complicated (and boring to anyone who isn’t me), Walter lives with me now. At least he lives with me now until June.
Walter, for the uninformed, is a mutt Sister #2 rescued five years ago. In fact, his adoption anniversary is February 14th. He’ll be with me for that momentous occasion because, as I mentioned, Walter lives with me now.
I never wanted a dog. I’ve always been an “other people’s dog” kind of people. I like dogs. I love them. But I also love having coffee and snuggling in to some Twitter updates first thing in the morning and not standing outside in the cold while the dog sniffs around for ten minutes trying to find the exact blade of grass that is worthy enough for him to pee on.
Lucky for Walter I love him a bunch, like more than I love all the other dogs and so I do the cold outside before coffee. And the cold outside before bed. And only once did I want to tie him to a tree and leave him to find that blade of grass by himself and that was during a torrential downpour this summer.
Lucky for me Walter loves me a bunch too, and it has nothing to do with the fact that when my sister first got him I would line my pockets with cheesy wavy bacon dog treats. No. He loves me a bunch because he is an excellent judge of character and recognizes a superior being when he sees one.
So Walter lives with me now and the best thing about him is that he appears to listen to me talk endlessly about what ever nonsense I have in my head. Paco, my eighteen-year-old, pretty close to death cat, will have none of my nonsense.
Today, as I ended a call with some colleagues I was a little bit bummed. Seems one of the woman I adore working with, who has been kind and patient as I get up to speed on this email marketing job, will be leaving in two weeks. Alas!
So as I hung up on the hangout, I made a whiny noise. Walter, who was curled up at my feet, perked right up, cocking his head as if to say, “What’s the matter, Sugar?”
Then I said, out loud, with my voice, “C’mere, Pooty Poo, I want to pet your butt.”
And as he came and settled next to my leg, his butt within petting distance, I thought “Ahh, this is why people get dogs*.”
*I still do not want a dog. I have to say this a lot because my dog-rescuing, dog-fostering, dog-loving BFK might just spring a dog on me some day. I do not want a dog. I only want Walter, and only because he’s a short-term lease.