After our 15-year-old, Great Pyrenees named Freeway made her way into doggie heaven, many months after we were plucking long white hairs from our clothing, my wife Mimi and I, new empty-nesters, argued passionately about repopulating the house… I wanted to enjoy our newfound freedom; Mimi wanted a pooch who’d curl up in her lap and take long hikes with us.

Every day she scanned shelter websites, emitting Ooohs and Aaahs… Each dog was cuter than the last. Eventually, Mimi wore me down and convinced me to visit the shelter… “No harm in looking.”  Yeah right.

After meeting and sniffing out dozens of worthy dogs, we spied a 50-pound beast gazing at us from inside his cage.  This brown and white Muppet had mussed up human-like hair, warm brown eyes, and he cocked his head when he looked at me. During our introductory walk, Wyatt—that’s why they called him– was happy, engaging and just a bit limpy. 

The staff made a gentle recommendation: “Why don’t you foster first, be sure that Wyatt’s the right fit… And you should know that Wyatt was run over by a car and abandoned…  He has two broken legs that’ll need to be fixed…” Wait! What?!

Of course Mimi convinced me to bring him home and get to know him. But, that night, I had a very difficult conversation with her. “If Wyatt can’t go on long hikes, maybe he’s not the right dog for us.”

“You don’t understand.” Mimi explained with Wyatt gazing up at her with complete adoration. “He’s a member of our family now. If you want another dog to hike with, that’s fine. But Wyatt is staying!” This had to be fastest foster fail, ever!

I called the shelter and complained about our latest family feud. “Not to worry,” they assured me and they offered up the secret phone number of the shelter vet who offered services at a discount for shelter dogs. Without going into gruesome details, it required a team effort to raise the money so the vet could provide the much-needed surgery which involved re-breaking the bones, inserting pins and plates and casting his legs. Go Team Wyatt!

To prevent him from putting weight on his legs, Wyatt had to remain in his cage for a month; we had to carry him out to the yard to do his business. As I pored through the post-op directions, I couldn’t find anything that required my wife to sleep on the floor beside Wyatt’s cage during the healing process, but that’s exactly what happened… Mimi could not endure Wyatt’s whimpers. Eventually, he made his way… to his rightful place… on our bed.