The Walter Chronicles

Come Get Your Dog

Come Get Your Dog

Last week, Walter, our eight pound toy poodle rescue, had dental work. He was overdue for a cleaning, and the vet suspected he might need extractions - an issue we inherited from his pre-adoption owners. I agonized over making the appointment, worried about the risks of anesthesia, which are never zero. But a tooth infection posed a much greater risk. His Royal Walterness may rule our home, but not when it comes to decisions about his health.

The night before the appointment, my husband and I reviewed the pre-procedure instructions to ensure we followed protocol.

“I’m supposed to drop him off at 8:30 a.m. They said they would call when the procedure is over but will keep him for observation until about 1 p.m.”

My husband tilted his head and gave me the eyes-over-the-glasses stare. “You know he won’t be there that long,” he said.

“But it says…”

He interrupted. “What do you think he’ll do when he wakes up after the procedure?”

“He’ll howl and bark and paw at the cage, disturbing all of the other dogs and annoying the hell out of the vet techs.”

“You’ll get the ‘Come get your dog’ call early.”

“Probably. But if he’s groggy from the anesthesia…”

Another over-the-glasses stare. “Wanna bet?” he asked.

I thought about it for one second. “No,” I said with a sigh of resignation.

The next day, I loaded Walter in the car. When I made the left turn out of the driveway, he knew we were going to the veterinary office and began his protest. And by protest, I mean bark and whine very loudly. He hated going to the vet even more than he hated going to the groomers.

The vet’s office was only ten minutes away. It was late October, and I noticed the red and yellow leaves shivering with a tentative attachment to their otherwise bare branches – gleaning every second of their brief season. I rushed past them, anxious to shake the guilt I felt over subjecting Walter to the procedure, even though I knew it was the right thing to do.

When I arrived, I quickly handed Walter over to a very friendly vet tech sporting a ponytail and a purple sweater over her white scrubs. I must have had that worried pet owner look, because she immediately offered words of assurance, “Don’t worry - we’ll take good care of him.” And with that, she carried him back into the surgical area.

At exactly 10:00 a.m., the call came.
“Walter is done. His procedure went great, and he didn’t need any extractions.”

“Oh, that’s really good news,” I said.

“And you can pick him up now.”

In the background, I heard a very familiar shrill staccato bark.
“Is he giving you a hard time?” I asked.

She responded with a very drawn-out “Yesss.”

Apparently, his royal pedigree didn’t earn him special status in doggy post-op.
“I’ll be right there.”

I raced to the vet’s office, partly to rescue the techs from Walter’s wrath and partly because I missed my little shadow - always right on my heels, trailing me through every room – even the bathroom. When I arrived, the now slightly harried ponytailed vet tech wasted no time in delivering Walter into my arms. After dealing with our entitled monarch, I assumed she was heading straight to the break room.

Walter is as cute as a fluffy stuffed animal with soft round eyes that could melt even the hardest heart. And his willfulness has the force of the fiercest NFL linebacker. Genghis Khan would have been putty in his paws. Henry VIII would’ve abandoned the Tudor lineage and declared Walter heir to the throne. Even Louis XIV couldn’t have resisted those warm brown eyes - Versailles would’ve glistened with golden dog beds and portraits of the canine prince.

But the response from our vet’s office?

“Come get your dog.”

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