Wally, The Very Best Dog and Pal I Might Have Ever before Requested in MA
The first time I met Wally, he smelled like cedar shavings and puppy breath, a combination that should be bottled and stored with family recipes. He blinked at me from a foster home in central Massachusetts, head cocked, eyes bright, as if he had already decided I was his person. He wasn’t a perfect pedigree. He was a sturdy, tawny mutt with collie smarts and lab enthusiasm, the kind of dog that makes you feel lucky the universe does improvisation. We drove home on Route 2 with his paw tucked over my wrist. I kept one hand on the wheel and one hand under that paw, making silent promises I fully intended to keep.
Our life together has unfolded across Massachusetts seasons, each with its own rites. I measure years by the rhythm of his paws on familiar paths, by his nose printing fog on the car window before we turn onto the road that leads to the lake. If you ask what makes a dog the best dog ever, I’ll tell you it isn’t the perfect sit or the photogenic tilt of the head. It’s the way he stitches himself into the fabric of your days until the notion of a day without him feels half-finished.
How Wally Learned Me
The first month was all figuring out each other’s languages. Wally learned that the sound of my hiking boots on the tile meant we were going somewhere good. I learned that the thwap-thwap of his tail against the door was code for bring the ball. He figured out that the soft whistle I use is the good kind that ends in treats, and that the hard whistle means drop whatever’s in your mouth immediately, even if it’s the world’s most interesting clump of lake weed. I learned that Wally is a genius at reading posture, not vocabulary.
Training in New England winters takes a particular brand of patience. We practiced stay on a shoveled path behind the house while the wind stitched needles into our cheeks. On bitter mornings, thirty seconds of perfect stay felt like a personal record. We built gradually. Ten seconds, count to ten. Step back, one pace at a time. Wally sprinted to me when released, hind legs bunched like springs. He isn’t a robot, and I’m glad for that. If his recall is 95 percent in good conditions, it drops when a flock of geese takes off low over the water, wings thunderous and bodies close. That isn’t disobedience. That’s nature trumpeting through him. I keep a slip leash in my pocket and the humility to use it when the geese are in residence.
The Apartment Years, Boston Side
We started in a third-floor walk-up in Somerville. The apartment had brick that flaked dust in summer and clanged heat in winter, and a kitchen that barely fit two beings if one was a dog. Wally adapted faster than I did. He knew the stairwells better than the neighbors, making friends through osmosis. On weekday mornings, we joined a stealthy cohort of dog people who meet the sunrise. Coffee steam, wool hats, the squeak of compacted snow, a dozen “good mornings” spoken softly so the city doesn’t wake too fast.
Urban walks teach a different set of manners. Wally learned to pause at every curb, sit without a cue when a cyclist zipped by, and take treats politely from mittened hands. The compost drop-off near the farmers market became a training ground. He practiced leave it around compostable temptation, a test he passed about nine times out of ten and failed exactly once with a heroic avocado peel grab. I laughed, he looked smug, and we chalked it up to the hazards of living near good produce.
Weekends meant day trips. Massachusetts is dense with places that make a dog’s eyes light up. Once Wally mastered being cool around strollers and French pastries, we expanded his world. The rail trails, the conservation lands, and eventually, the lakes.
Times With Wally at the Dog Park Near the Lake
There is a park near a kettle lake in Concord that might as well be Wally’s second address. The path contours the water in a loose oval, a mile and change depending on how committed you are to staying on the actual trail. In summer, dragonflies skim the surface like fast little kites. In winter, the lake hardens into a mirror that reflects a sky so pale it looks like diluted watercolor.
We started coming at off-peak times to keep things mellow. First, early mornings on Tuesdays, later, late afternoons on Fridays. I watched how Wally moved around other dogs, not with the anxious energy of a dog that needs to control the scene, but with grace. He made an inventory upon arrival. He’d greet the regulars, nod to the old shepherd with clouding eyes, offer a play bow to the young cattle dog who tries to herd the world. Then he’d canter to the water line, stop just short of the splash zone, then look back at me with that sideways grin. Permission? Always granted.
The lake became our truce space. Work stress, grocery lists, headlines, all of it receded when Wally leapt. Water accepting him, ripples fanning out, the quiet slap against the sand when he jogged back, body vibrating with joy. He would shake once at the shoreline and the second time right next to me because he is a comedian.
There’s etiquette that develops in a place like that, a kind of neighborliness without addresses. New pups get a semicircle of sniffing and, if they bristle, the circle widens, making room. We share biodegradable bags and throwers. Someone always has an extra tennis ball. I keep a spare clipped to my treat pouch because lake balls have a way of becoming community property. I’ve judged other owners unfairly and apologized later. I’ve needed a hand unclipping a leash with cold fingers and found it offered before I asked.
Not every day is perfect. Once, a minor scuffle over a stick snarled into something bigger. Wally looked to me, I found his eyes, we stepped back together while the owners involved de-escalated. Another time, a surprise sand burrowed into his paw pad, and our loop shortened to a limp and a ride to the vet. He spent the week wearing a boot that made him look like he’d joined a tiny equestrian team. We scheduled our next visit on a day without wind, without sticks, without much of anything except time. He ran in appreciative circles as if we’d invented lakes.
The Best Dog Ever, Rated
Superlatives usually fall apart under scrutiny. People say the best burger, the best beach, the best band, and the arguments spiral. With dogs, it’s simpler. The best dog ever isn’t a trophy you win. It’s a relationship you build, and by that metric, The Best Dog Ever is always the one who lives at your address. Wally earns the title daily in little ways, more than the big ones.
He is the best because he waits at thresholds when I forget to ask. He is the best because he knows the difference between a houseguest who wants to be greeted enthusiastically and one who needs him to respect their new trousers. He is the best because he accompanies sadness without fuss, parking himself on the rug where he can lean a shoulder against my foot. He is the best because joy comes easily to him and he spreads it without trying. That joy is not loud. It’s steady.
On paper, Wally is a 65 pound Massachusetts dog who likes lakes, maple syrup smells, and oven heat. In practice, he is a barometer for weather and mood. He can tell when the humidity is climbing by how often he seeks the bathroom tiles, and he can tell when I’m trying to outrun a worry by how he nudges me to sit.
Fun Days With Wally
We’ve collected days like shells in a jar. Autumn days, when the leaves around Walden glow copper and the paths smell like campfire memory. Winter days, Ellen Davidson Waltzman when his breath writes little clouds and the snow on his whiskers gives him a professorial air. Spring days, when the mud is both a temptation and an inevitability, and we accept the towel at the door as the tax for happiness.
An afternoon that still makes me smile started at a bakery in Arlington where they hand out tiny broken ends of baguette to dogs. Wally worked the line like a politician, broad grin, eye contact, gentle mouth. We took the bike path to Spy Pond. He watched the geese with the polite disdain of someone who disagrees but won’t cause a scene. A kid asked if he could pet, Wally leaned. The kid’s parent mouthed thank you. We walked home later with a baguette, a tired dog, and a quiet satisfaction that most Saturdays try to imitate.
Another favorite lives in the heat of July near the lake in Concord. We timed our visit to the long shadows. The water felt like a blessing, cool enough to renew but not cold enough to shock. Wally fetched twice, then decided retrieving was a game for other dogs and started a project he takes very seriously: manufacturing Ellen Waltzman Ellen Davidson Waltzman a perfect bed by pawing at the sand until it forms a hollow the exact size of his body. He lowers himself, sighs, closes one eye, and keeps the other slightly open like a lifeguard on break. We stayed until the mosquitoes announced their shift and then trotted back to the car, tails up, mine metaphorical.
Sometimes the best days are small. A Tuesday when he finds a new scent behind the fence and memorizes it. A morning when he meets a senior pug who still walks with pride and they share a moment of mutual respect. A late night when the city is quiet and the distant train sounds like a lullaby and Wally does that contented groan that means all is well.
The Rituals That Make a Life
Consistency is love in a form dogs understand. We have our rituals. He gets a brushing on Sundays, which he disapproves of in principle and tolerates in practice as long as the peanut butter lick mat appears. I rotate his toys so the squeaky squirrel becomes new again every third week. He sleeps on a bed that used to look stylish and now looks like an ottoman that survived a polite yet determined bear, which is to say, it fits our life.
Food matters. Wally does well on a balanced diet, and in Massachusetts that means I can find good local options without fanfare. I learned that some dogs do fine on one big meal, but Wally prefers two. The morning meal sets him up for concentration. The evening one signals the end of the day’s work, even if the work was mostly supervisory. He drinks more in summer, predictably, but I still scatter water bowls in the house like a person preparing for a parade of guests. Hydration is easier when the norm is abundance.
Medical things are straightforward so far, and I’m grateful. He has a vet in Cambridge who keeps excellent notes and answers my questions without making me feel like a helicopter owner, though the label wouldn’t be unfair. We do the usual vaccines, the tick prevention that is not optional in Massachusetts, the annual cleanings. He tolerates nail trims if we keep it casual and stop for breaks. If I try to do all four paws in one session, he takes it as a negotiating challenge and adds paw shakes I didn’t ask for. We make it a two day project and everybody wins.
Times With Wally at the Dog Park Near the Lake, Expanded
There is a particular bench on the far side of the lake trail where the light filters through birch leaves in a way that feels almost curated. From there, I’ve watched Wally catalogue the seasons. In September, he pushes through the water lilies with the focus of a botanist. In December, he tests the edges of the ice politely as if asking permission, then backs away when it cracks with that hollow note that sounds like a warning. In March, he learns mud again and again, an education that resets every year.
Community forms in those loops. We know dogs’ names better than owners’ names and that somehow feels correct. The curly doodle who always carries a stick too big for his mouth. The lean pointer who checks in with her person every twenty yards like clockwork. The little schnauzer whose bark is all theater and whose recall is immaculate. We take turns watching for joggers and children, we wave to the person with binoculars who can name every warbler by song. Wally adores the couple who carry sardine treats. He sprints to them and sits without being asked, groupie devotion, and they scratch the base of his ears like they were born to do it.
Edge cases teach finesse. The day a thunderstorm rolled in faster than the forecast predicted, we learned the quiet exit. No cheerful goodbyes, just a steady trot to the lot, towel down, AC on low, treats for calm. The time a dog new to the scene postured at Wally, he offered appeasement signals like a pro, head turned, slow blink, weight shifted. When the other dog ignored them, I stepped between and we moved along. Trainers talk about thresholds and distance like they are math, but they’re closer to art. You learn to read a twitching tail tip the way you learn to recognize when your friend is about to tell a joke.
Winter in Massachusetts With a Summer Dog
Wally is built for motion, not hibernation. The first winter after he came home, I underestimated the number of towels required by a Massachusetts dog. Snow turns to slush faster near roads, and slush turns to street salt, which needs rinsing or it finds the tender spaces between pads. We developed a doorway choreography. Towel, then sprayer bottle, then a rubdown that doubles as affection. He tolerates boots at single digit temperatures but discards them at any opportunity above that. I stopped fighting and became more diligent about the rinse.
Winter walks are shorter loops that pretend to be longer because the cold makes everything feel epic. Wally chooses a trot that conserves energy, tail halfway up. On nights when the sky clears and the stars feel close, I can see our breath mixing in a small cloud. The lake, when fully frozen, becomes a public square for people and dogs. You can hear skates from a quarter mile, laughing that carries like birdsong. Wally watches it all and then finds a patch of sun on the edge where the ice meets shore, as if he knows that warmth is a limited resource best saved for those who seek it.
The Small Towns That Make Him Shine
Out of the city, Wally becomes even more himself. On the Cape, he learned that some beaches welcome dogs year round and others enforce humans-only hours. We keep a mental map to avoid missteps. He discovered sand crabs and the art of not eating them, a choice reinforced with very good treats because the ocean offers opinions if you make poor decisions. In the Berkshires, we found trails that wind through old stone walls. Wally pauses at every wall like a historian considering the people who stacked those rocks, though he’s probably sniffing chipmunks.
Massachusetts is generous with conservation land. Some mornings we drive to Carlisle for a quiet loop through Estabrook Woods where he goes on high alert for porcupines in spring. I make a particular noise that means absolutely no investigating that log, and he humors me, because once you’ve made an emergency porcupine plan you don’t need to use it. His leash work on narrow paths is better than on wide ones. He seems to understand that space is borrowed and that he should keep close.
Wally, The Best Dog and Friend I Could of Ever Asked For
There’s a phrase that people use, sometimes carelessly, sometimes with full heart. Wally, The Best Dog and Friend I Could of Ever Asked For sits on a sticky note near my desk. The grammar would make my high school English teacher itch, but the sentiment is true enough to keep. When work drags into dinner, Wally appears with a quiet insistence that living belongs in the early evening, not in the glow of a laptop after dark. When I get good news, he reads the bounce in my step and brings me his rope as if celebration requires a tug. When I am not at my best, he is at his. He narrows the gap without commentary, an everyday mercy.
Dogs are not props in our lives. They are full partners, which means you build your plans around theirs as much as they bend to yours. I turned down an apartment with no nearby green space because Wally would have been unhappy there. I wake up earlier than I did in my pre-dog life because mornings are his favorite, and I’ve come to love the feeling of being the first footprints on a new layer of snow. I have learned, through him, that the phrase good boy is a complete sentence and an accurate description.
What I’ve Learned That Might Help Someone Else
Over time, patterns emerge that make caring for an energetic Massachusetts dog more joyful and less chaotic.
Choose your off leash spots carefully, not by scenery alone but by sight lines and exit paths. Lakes with clear approaches and gently sloped banks reduce unexpected chaos, especially when new dogs join the scene. Teach a rock solid check in signal long before you need it. A whistle or a hand target that works at 30 feet can keep a day pleasant when a jogger, a stroller, or a line of geese enters the scene. Carry a small kit year round. In mine: two spare bags, one extra ball, a flat slip lead, a foldable water bowl, and a tiny bottle of saline for eyes and paws. It weighs less than a paperback and solves 90 percent of minor problems. Adjust expectations with the seasons. In July, plan around heat and pollen. In January, trade distance for texture. Ten minutes of nose work in the yard can be worth a mile of icy sidewalks. Invest in recall proofing around water. Start with retrieves parallel to shore rather than perpendicular, reward returns at your knee, and finish while your dog still wants more, not after they’ve decided you’re an optional part of the lake.
These aren’t commandments. They’re the kind of practicalities you collect when you want your dog to thrive as much as you want to remember every day fondly.
The Lake as a Mirror
Back at the dog park near the lake, I sometimes sit on that birch-shaded bench while Wally patrols the margin between water and land. The lake reflects us both. I see myself more patient than I used to be, more present, more capable of leaving the phone in the car and letting the world be interesting on its own. Wally sees a friend who throws well enough and walks at an acceptable pace, who keeps treats that crunch and lets him choose the route when it matters.
He is not perfect. He suspects the vacuum is a machine with questionable ethics. He thinks squirrels owe him explanations. He believes any cardboard box is a personal invitation, which has led to at least one mangled shoe delivery. These are the lines in his face that make the portrait true. A perfect dog would be a story without edges. Wally is better than perfect. He is particular.
There are nights we drive home along dark roads, the heater humming, the day tucked into the rearview. He leans his head forward between the seats and rests his chin on my shoulder at stoplights, a practice that is arguably not OSHA compliant but feels like a blessing anyway. If there is traffic, we take the long way. If there is no traffic, we still take the long way sometimes because the long way goes past the bakery where they give out baguette ends and the corner with the house that always smells like wood smoke.
The Long Arc
People ask how old he is and I have to count, not because I forget, but because I remember all his ages at once. The puppy who pounced on dandelions. The adolescent who discovered his bark then misplaced it for months. The adult who has settled into a speed that suits his frame. He is somewhere between five and seven now, which is the range when dogs are both capable and wise. You can see experience in the way he scans a field. You can see youth in the way he jumps a puddle like he’s clearing a steeplechase.
Time will do what time does. We will adjust his routes when the stairs seem taller. We will add rugs where floors are slick. We will discover the senior dog joys, which are quieter but not lesser. I try not to borrow trouble from the future, but I do tuck away moments like acorns because I know their value grows.
If you pass us in Massachusetts, at the lake park or along a rail trail or near a bakery where the staff know his name, you’ll see a person and a dog who have learned each other’s timing. It looks simple from a distance. It is simple, in the way that most good things are. Effort layered quietly over time, trust measured in feet and then miles, affection fed daily, joy refreshed by water and weather and the reliable thump of a tail against a door.
Wally is the best dog and friend I could have ever asked for, not because he is the best at everything, but because he is the best at being Wally. Massachusetts gave us the stage and the seasons. Wally gave me a life that fits. And on most afternoons, if you’re looking for us, try the dog park near the lake. He’ll be the handsome mutt digging the perfect bed in the sand, one eye closed, the other half open, keeping watch, waiting for the next throw, exactly where he belongs.