The Walter Chronicles

Hope and Healing in a Purple Harness

Walter loves his walks. Walter approaches walking with a “You must take me, I’m entitled to it, I own this entire neighborhood” attitude. He doesn’t trot to the door and do a polite little circle dance that says “it would be really nice of you to take me for a walk” kind of way. This eight pound poodle mix, shelter-adopted, street-smart, white ball of fluff jumps on our gray L-shaped couch, plants his tiny front paws on my lap and, with the cutest round chocolate eyes, telepathically demands a walk.

In case I’ve failed to understand his message, this sweet little face then lets out the most annoying, piercing barks in rapid succession. I foolishly try to apply reason, “Walter, can I finish my coffee first?” He replies with a relentless stream of high-pitched barks. And he will not stop. I distract him for a minute or two with treats, but he remains single-minded.

You must walk me now.

This is not just a dog who needs to do his morning business. I take him out first thing upon waking. Before I am even dressed, I am wading through wet grass wearing my blue nightgown and black bathrobe while Walter lazily sniffs for the perfect pee site - which he does in his leisurely manner. Our four-legged Liege has more than enough time, and plenty of room in our ample yard, to deposit his fragrant feculence. But he refuses. His deposits are too refined for that kind of barbaric behavior. Walter’s “contributions” are reserved for other people’s property. And if he can release it directly in front of the neighbor’s mailbox, even better. I pick it up, of course. What else are dog owners for?

Eventually, I give up on the coffee. As I make the short trek from our living room to the bedroom, he’s right on my heels stalking me as though I might forget he awaits his royal constitutional. I throw on a pair of jeans, a light sweatshirt, and my well-worn black Skechers walking shoes, grabbing a bag for His Highness’s kingly poop as I head out the door. He leads me up the driveway, tethered to his retractable leash and sporting his purple harness (because what other color would royalty wear?). I swear I can hear a rendition of God Save the King as his royal procession begins.

Somewhere between the driveway and the road, Walter decides which direction he’d like to go, marching confidently, turning right or left without the slightest hesitation. Perhaps he’s guided by the wind direction, or the smell of the air – or maybe he’s developed a complex algorithm that calculates how many times he’s walked down Ray Road as opposed to Morgan Road. Perhaps he feels compelled to give each road equal time with his regal presence.

Whatever the methodology, it is nearly impossible to lead him somewhere he does not want to go. The little Lord of Morgan Road isn’t open to suggestions. He did not ask for my opinion on the matter, after all. Occasionally, I do try to lead him in the opposite direction. His response is to collapse into a peaceful protest mode, lying down and refusing to rise until we follow his lead, not mine.

And so, I do what any dog owner would do when I disagree with his direction choice. I pick him up and carry him the entire length of the walk. When I finally set him down, he does me the honor of walking me home. Not because I want him to, but because he never wanted to go in that direction anyway. On the way back, he selects a mailbox and does his business. I count it as a win.

Walter knows exactly what he wants, and he’s never shy about letting us know. That kind of confidence is a sign of safety. It’s clear he feels secure and loved now - maybe for the first time in his life.

Walter came to us from a local shelter almost four years ago, just after Christmas. The brief Facebook post listed him as a toy poodle mix named Simon. They estimated his age at about seven years old. He had no identifying tag or chip. No one came to claim him. That was all we knew about him when my husband Dave and I walked through the doors of the shelter on that cold January morning in 2022.

We were surprised when Simon immediately greeted us. He was not caged in the holding area with the other lost and abandoned dogs. Because of course he wasn’t. Simon was running free in the reception area, where he welcomed visitors with the intense barking we have come to know very well. Just in case we hadn’t noticed him, he leaped up on an overstuffed chair near the reception desk and looked us in the eyes as he demanded to be the sole focus of our attention.

And then I noticed how thin he was and the reddish-brown tear stains that gave the appearance of sunken eyes.

How could we leave the shelter without him? I was certain this would be his final day without a home. But I still needed Dave to weigh in.

A young woman with curly blonde hair, wearing a stained green sweatshirt provided greater insight into Simon’s history.

“He was in bad shape when he was brought in by Animal Control,” she said, as she scrolled through her phone and selected his photo. I stared at the image stunned. The dog in the photo looked nothing like the confident little guy we had just met. His overgrown fur was covered in filth with long matted clumps. His eyes were almost completely covered.

“We had to crop his fur closely to remove all the matted areas. He was likely abandoned,” she said.

I was still reeling from the image of this dog who had been in such dire shape. I couldn’t understand how any person could just abandon him or any dog.

“He’s very underweight, so you’ll want to encourage him to eat larger meals. I’m afraid we don’t know anything else about him,” she continued.

I was more than ready to take the little guy home, but I checked in with Dave, “What do you think?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate, “Let’s take him,” he said, nodding. We filled out the paperwork and paid the $120 fee, as the shelter worker handed us a bag of kibble, a leash, and a clean blanket.

As I cradled him in my arms, she said, “Oh, and we just gave him the name Simon, so we had something to call him. He doesn’t know his name so you can change it if you’d like.”

“Walter,” my husband said. I was confused, but then he explained, “Because he’s white. You know, as in Walter White from Breaking Bad.”

I smiled. The name fit – even better than we knew at the time.

“He is the one who barks,” I said.

As I carried him to the car, swaddled in a blanket, still smelling of urine and in desperate need of a bath, he let his guard down and began shaking. His eyes communicated a wary fear. He was heading into the unknown. We might be just another owner who would abandon him – who wouldn’t tend to his basic needs. We might be uncaring people who put him out on the street because he was a high-maintenance dog. He didn’t yet know he could trust us.

In our first brief encounter, he told us everything we needed to know about who he was. Regal. Confident. But also vulnerable, sweet, and open to giving humans another chance.

Almost four years later, it’s a chilly fall morning as Walter regally trots down Morgan Road which he owns, of course. I watch as his little legs wade through piles of red and yellow leaves gathered at the side of the road – each step rustling with the crisp sound of September. I notice his puffed-out chest and firm stance as we encounter joggers and neighbors walking their dogs. I feel his joy - his comfort in this new life.

Walter didn’t just join our family - he completed it. His quiet naps, loud demands, and royal routines remind us that hope and healing don’t always arrive in big packages or grand gestures. Sometimes they wear a purple harness and come with a bark that says, “I’m home.”

Walter Then and Now