The gray clouds drizzled gentle tears shortly after nine in the morning on Wednesday, May 14, 2025. Wallace Jetson had breathed his last.

It was a day my brain had told me was inevitable. It was a day my heart feared would someday come.

I never liked dogs when I was a kid. Too much work. My brother Kenny liked dogs. I preferred fish. Release them from a plastic bag, shake a little food every now and then, and it all ended with a single flush.

Ever since she was a kid, Betsy dreamed of having a beagle named Wally. I always told her, “Let’s see how you do with kids first.”

She took that test three times, passing each one with ease. So I set aside my own prejudices and, for her fiftieth birthday, surprised her with a trip to Cedar Grove Kennels in Bergen. They bred beagles there. I wanted Betsy to have her childhood dream come true.

They say you don’t pick the dog; the dog picks you. One pup, among a brood of more than a half dozen, took an interest in us as we approached. Without hesitation, he drew himself towards Catarina’s feet. She swooped him up into her arms. We instantly knew he was the one.

Martin Leggo approached Betsy and asked, “Which one would you like?” Betsy’s smile beamed as she pointed to the one Catarina was holding. “That one.” Betsy picked him up and caressed him. She never let go.

That’s when Wally, pure-bred grandson of American and Canadian Champion Snow Jetson, entered our world. She cuddled him in her arms on the long drive back home. He nestled in for the ride. Perfectly content. As if he understood this was the place he was always meant to be.

Did I say “arms”? I should have said “hands.” That’s how small Wally was. You could scoop him up in the palms of your cupped hands. When we got home, he chased Peter, but his little legs couldn’t keep up.

That Wally loved Betsy goes without question. She trained him, fed him, and smothered him with heartfelt affection. And he returned the affection. And then some. When she left the room, he would faithfully follow, stop at the door of her exit, and wait patiently for her return.

In later years, the routine shifted a bit. He knew she’d be gone for long hours when Betsy left for work in the morning. That’s when he’d take his bed in the position behind my chair, quite content that, except for the occasional Zoom call or broadcast from the studio, I would be there next to him. When I sat in my seat, he’d move his plush cushion right up against my chair leg. I guess he wanted to make sure I was there next to him. I always had to be careful backing out to get up so I wouldn’t hit him.

When Cesidia and Catarina were home, before they retired for the evening, they’d quietly say goodnight to him because he looked sound asleep. But those magic words had him turn on his back, legs pointed in the air. That meant only one thing: belly rub! He demanded this before allowing the girls to sleep, and they lovingly obliged.

During the day, he’d stay in his bed as long as I was there working. When it was time to get the mail or paper, I’d wake him (I didn’t need to be too careful backing up my chair then), and he’d joyfully follow me out and down the driveway. The only other time he’d get up was when I “dropped” popcorn on the floor for him to eat. And if I didn’t drop it, he’d prop up on his hind legs, nose on the table like Snoopy’s on Schroeder’s piano, and butt his head into my arm to remind me he was there waiting for the next drop.

And he would be there next to me as I worked into the wee small hours of the morning. We became midnight buddies. When I called it a night, and after I turned off all the lights, he’d get up in the dark and sleep the rest of the night in his kennel.

Sure, on nice sunny days, he’d go outside and sit in the lush, cool grass at the end of the driveway. There he’d wait in a stiff stoic stance, looking longingly down the street, as if he expected Betsy’s car to be coming ‘round the corner any minute. Of course, if Betsy were home, he’d still stand in the spot, anticipating the arrival of anyone, especially his fellow four-legged friend Teddy. Eventually, he’d come back inside and assume his usual position in his bed behind me. I suppose he found the soft tapping of the keyboard keys quite relaxing. He’d sleep or rest. It was a tranquil setting.

Until Betsy came home from work. As soon as he heard the car in the garage, he’d pop right up and rush to the door, tail wagging. He may have derived comfort from my consistent presence, but he missed his master. To him, she was his entire world.

And speaking of his world, ever the faithful pooch, Wally himself pitched in to help when the family resumed control of the Sentinel. When times were tough and content was lean, he provided a regular column called “Wally’s World.” And when submissions increased, and the paper filled, he never complained when his column was cut back.

When Wally wasn’t having columns ghostwritten for him, he’d do what beagles do—hunt for real and imagined prey. It was usually imagined. Oh so many toys suffered the same fate. He’d shake the stuffing out of them. But even sans stuffing, he’d treat them as treasures. Whether it was the flat football, the emaciated elephant, or “French Toast,” he made sure to keep one of them close by in his cozy nighttime retreat.

There was one time, however, when Wally had the opportunity to practice what nature had bred into him. A small baby bunny had lost its way and was alone in the flower garden outside the garage. Peter wanted to see what Wally would do. Catarina would have none of that and took the little rabbit out of Wally’s mouth. Betsy concurred and put a leash on Wally. She had no problem with him chasing the much larger deer out of the backyard. Or baying at the possum playing dead. But, baby bunnies? She drew the line there.

Where she didn’t draw the line was Wally’s insistence that he sleep on the green chair at Betsy’s parents’ house. Since his bed was movable, Wally slept wherever he wanted to. One morning, we woke up to find him on the green chair. How he got there, we didn’t know. Until we saw him hop down, grab his fluffy pad, and put it somewhere else to lie. That night, we saw him leap up into the soft seat. Initially, we tried to discourage him, but he remained persistent. Besides, it was at night, and not a creature (us) was stirring, except for Wally.

Master of His Own Domain

The green chair was strategically placed in front of the big picture window facing the street. Wally liked to stand up on the edge of the backrest and watch the goings-on outside. When Betsy left for the store, he’d watch the car drive away. When he heard the car come back, he’d jump on the chair and watch Betsy get out of the car and walk towards the door. Before she got into the house, Wally rushed around to greet her arrival, tail wagging wildly.

But mostly, Wally looked out the window, waiting for people to go by. Especially people walking their dogs.

Wally loved people. Wally loved other dogs. Wally loved everyone and everything, except for the neighbor’s cat. Of all things, he liked food most. Especially people food. He ate everything, half of Peter’s sub, Catarina’s white cream donut, half of Bety’s family-sized bag of Hershey’s Kisses (meant for our Super Bowl party), and dryer sheet, the occasional piece of jewelry, and a generous supply of recyclables. Which is why hydrogen peroxide and whipped cream were invented. He never learned that there was no upside to eating things like Cesidia’s mitten. But he did learn the barter system and happily traded undigestible items for a treat.

For all his love of food, he became a very finicky eater as he got older. Every so often, I’d have to sprinkle popcorn bits on his real food to trick him into eating. But when we ate, he expected to eat. Usually from one of us. He had a knack for finding the “weakest link” when it came to foraging for food. For a time, this was Betsy’s mother. Then it was my father, who especially enjoyed feeding Wally Betsy’s homemade chocolate chip cookies.

And when we had parties, it was everybody. Not on purpose, however, but you know how scraps of food would regularly get dropped during a party? There was Wally, joyously cleaning up after everyone’s spill. Who needs a Roomba when there’s a Wally?

Of course, parties could sometimes traumatize Wally. One year, one guest insisted on dying the white tip of his tail blue. He made a successful escape and remained au naturel. Another year, when he had a leash but was running free, his leash got caught on a pole. Convinced somebody was holding him back on purpose, he yipped and yapped to complain. When he turned around and noticed it was his own doing, he freed himself and sheepishly ran off in embarrassment, tail between his legs.

Big Brother, Little Brother

Legs? Did you mention legs? For the longest time, people would see Wally running free in the yard using only three legs, usually following Peter as he mowed the lawn like a little brother follows his big brother. No sooner did they ask, “Is he lame?” than he’d race on all fours. We never figured that one out.

Like most dogs, he didn’t like fireworks. We considered this odd because he was born during a thunderstorm, and you’d think he’d be accustomed to loud noises. During the July 4^th season, Betsy would take him inside for a quieter setting. Still, he shook.

Same thing with lightning storms. When the roar of thunder approached, he’d nudge himself in between my legs. Sometimes he’d shake so violently I thought he might fall apart. In older years, as his hearing deteriorated, fireworks and thunder became less frightening.

Wally, who would have been fifteen in July, remained relatively healthy until the very end. You might not think this since, ever since his bout with pneumonia, he had a hacking cough that could convince you he was a six-pack-a-day smoker. Towards the end, though, the body started to lose its stamina. No longer would he bound two steps in one leap from the garage to the mudroom. Fortunately, however, the vet diagnosed the problem, and Wally once again would race with vigor.

The last week or so was tough on him. He started to experience a hematoma in his left ear. Again, we don’t know why. After it came back again, the vet told us he could have risky surgery or take a steroid. The steroid required him to go off his regular medicine for a week. Without that medicine, over the course of the week, his legs weakened considerably. He could walk, but it was a labor. The steroid medicine, when he finally got it, offered a momentary boost. You could tell the strength came back into his legs.

But then the side effects hit. It was a stomach issue. He had less of an appetite. Then he stopped eating. We took him off the steroid medicine, but had to wait five days before he could take his old medicine. The atrophy of his legs worsened.

The last couple of days, I had to carry him up the two steps from the garage to the house. On that last night (about an hour after midnight) before I stopped working, he wanted to go out. I had to carry him all the way. I stayed with him so he didn’t go off to die (as dogs often do). He started to wander off, but then he saw me and came back towards the house. I carried him in.

Once inside, I dropped a few popcorn kernels on the floor. He ignored them. Instead of going to his bed behind me, he went straight to his kennel. He was having difficulty breathing. I figured he was trying to tell me something. I said, “Good night, Wally. Go to sleep.” I turned off the lights and went upstairs.

In the morning, he couldn’t swallow what Betsy gave him to soothe his stomach. He tried, but he couldn’t. He looked at her forlornly, as if to say, “I’m sorry.” He was hurting, but he was still trying to please the master he so adored. Betsy scheduled a vet appointment for 9:30 am and told me to get ready.

I came down a little bit before nine in the morning. Wally’s breathing was very faint, and he struggled for every breath. I could tell it was hard for him. I said, “Good morning, Wally.” And his eyes moved to look at me. Not that he could hear me (that sense had vanished long ago), but he could see I was there. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I suppose he wanted to ensure it was safe. That I’d be there in the seat next to him. That everything would be OK.

Moments later, Betsy came down, looked at Wally, and said, “He stopped breathing.”

I put my hand on his chest to see if I could feel anything. The only thing I felt was my own pulse. No sound. No whimper. Wally passed quietly into the tranquil sleep of forever.

Wally was what everyone imagines a dog to be, and then some. He was no fish. Wally was family. He will be missed.

Fittingly, it’s two o’clock in the morning as I finish this. I’m about ready to back out of my chair. I’ll still be careful. Good night, midnight buddy. Have a good sleep.