Waldo was adopted by our family when he was six-weeks-old. I thought we were getting a Brittany Spaniel puppy, but since that time I've become convinced that our spirited beast is half beaver/half-kangaroo. I'm also convinced that our ding-a-ling-beast-a-thing entered a premature adolescense by the time he reached three-months-old. Just what I needed for supplemental energizing, a teen-age dog child joining forces with two teen-age daughter creatures. Glory be--I must've been the supreme focus at some high-powered prayer marathon!

After my husband Bill, our daughter Melissa, and I made our selection from a litter of romping puppies, we began juggling possible names ranging from ridiculous to dignified. Waldo was the name of our new pup affirmed with a convincing swish from his stub of a tail. Never have I seen a more handsome puppy than Waldo--golden patches on a glistening white coat, compelling blue eyes, a magnetic personality. But, alas, as with children, his lambie-pie days were short-lived.

During Waldo's initial weeks with us, I spent a significant amount of time cuddling him and taking him places with me. He was the center of attention wherever we went. I held him in my lap while carpooling, bounced him on my knees while working at my comuter, played peek-a-boo and gabbed in puppy lingo. Once again I had a little one to play with and to soothe my loneliness. I didn't care how slobbery Waldo's kisses were or how faulty his plumbing. My love for my puppy-duppy was an unconditional, maternal love--the kind of love every human needs during the difficult years of growing up, an enduring love incapable of dying. No matter what.

One day my internal radar picked up the signal most mothers dread hearing. The foreboding sound was undeniable, and I knew what it forewarned. I tried ignoring what I heard, but the words became a taunting, crescendoing refrain: dum-de-dum-dum...dum-de-dum-dum...
 

Once Waldo tired of chasing his almost invisible tail, he was ready to chase Savannah's notorious sand gnats and play catch-me-if-you-can with his adoring mistress. I'm afraid I've never been much of an athlete, and playing a doggie's version of catch-me-if-you-can is not an aspect of my fantasy life. To make matters worse, participating in Waldo's jolly-folly left me looking asinine as I trotted about downtown Savannah trolling, "Waldo, oh Waldo- where, oh where has my little dog gone, where in the la-de-da can he be? His tail is short, but it's gonna be gone, if he's not back when I count to th-reee!"

The day came when I'd had it. I mean, I really do have a high tolerance level and will put up with more poppycock than most individuals with any degree of sanity; but enough is enough is enough. It was time to buy a leash for Waldo, then his gait would conform to mine. No more of that catch-me-if-you-can nonsense. But, Waldo was approaching his canine adolescence; having his direction guided or controlled by an adult simply could not be tolerated. 

A fray between woman and dog ensues. Woman yanks leash and commands, "Walk, dog!"
 
Dog responds, with feisty eyes and a snarled mouth, "Gr-r-r-r...." He then spends the entire walk with his head turned 360 degrees as he attempts chewing off his leather leash. I start thinking about the parallels between mule-headed dogs and bull-headed children.

"Waldo," I'd say, as though he understood, "don't you know that if I take your leash off you'll probably run out into the street and get yourself killed? The leash is for your own good. If you'll just quit fighting it, you'll have an enjoyable walk and a long romp when we get to an area where you'll be safe."
 
So what does precocious Waldo say? Yup, you've got it..

"Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r-!"
 

"Okay, Waldo," I said, "I know you're a growing boy and need more space for flexing that brawny body of yours. I'm gonna let you have the courtyard for you bachelor's pad. You know how much I love that secret garden, but I'll share it with you."

Our small courtyard garden has always provided a place of comfurt and refuge for me, and I've spent much time embellishing and tending it over the years. I especially love it in the springtime when frangrant Confederate Jasmine cascades over the stucco wall, providing a picturesque backdrop for a mesmerizing, trickling fountain. Sitting next to a miniature fishpond, I sometimes close my eyes and drift into oblivion. Sharing my garden paradise with a hyperactive monster was an act of love. It was also an act of unadulterated stupidity.

Within a few hours of investigating his new quarters, Waldo's territorial instincts emerged. No longer was it our courtyard. Oh no! It was Waldo's courtyard, and the first thing on his landscaping agenda was making it hole-y ground. Pronto. To speed up the process, he zoomed into his beaver mode so he could whack down a perimeter of flourishing shrubbery. I think he even even tried constructing a beaver dam in the fish pond, terrorizing the poor, defenseless fish. Next, he shifted into his kangaroo mode and played leap-frog over shruberry stumps. When the chiseling and jumping got boring, he dug another hole to wallow in.

In less than a month, our downtown Eden became a mutilated, naked carcass which I could hardley stand to walk through; I dared not walk through the mire without the protection of galoshes and a gas mask. He even chewed up the fountain and the garden tools. Of course, Waldo loved the havoc he created. After all, the grunge look is really in now. Sorry, but I don't like the grunge look, and I don't like living conditions where I can't breathe. Waldo and I were obviously having a failure to communicate. The time had come for him to learn to rules of planet Earth.
 
"This is it, Wal-do-do-!" I said. "I'm placing a restraining order on you until you get your act together. Do you understand me?"

 Silence.

 "I said," speaking louder, "do you understand me?" 
 
For a brief moment Waldo paused, as though he were comprehending what I was saying. Then, he sprang foward and began his jump, bite, run act. This time I ran faster, my adrenalin converted me into muscle woman as I cornered the beast.

"Gr-r-r-r," Waldo responded, with all the gusto he could muster. It was too late, my fingers were bleeding, but I bridled him with a metal chain to a restricted area of the garden where no more damage could be done. He rivaled Houdini in his efforts to escape, almost choking himself in the process. It didn't work. He lost his freedom because he wasn't mature enough to handle it when he received it. He was acting like a spoiled child who's been the recipient of too much and incapable of appreciating anything anymore. And I'd been a s-l-o-w learner; or perhaps, maybe I was just a mom who "loved too much."
 

What about the here-and-now? I'll inhale the sweet-smelling Jasmine and absorb the splendor.