The Studio Dog—WALTER
There are no paintings getting made today. There is just grief, and a very quiet studio, and the particular silence of a space that used to have a heartbeat in it.
We said goodbye to Walter yesterday. He was just seven years old, healthy and full of himself right up until he wasn't, and then we had about a week to prepare before we had to let him go. An inoperable tumor, very advanced, very fast. That is the cruel math of dogs. They don't give you enough time and then they give you even less.
Walter came to us the Christmas right after the studio was finished, just a few months before covid arrived and changed everything. We rescued him, and then he rescued us right back. I'm not sure we would have stayed sane through those years without him. He made us walk. He made us laugh. He made the isolation feel like something else entirely.
He was, from the very beginning, a studio dog. Every morning when I went out to turn on the wax, he trotted out with me and hopped onto the studio couch like he owned it, which he did. He greeted every student and guest with enormous ceremony, escorting them back to the studio and announcing their arrival with his husky howling. He was famously and shamelessly spoiled during workshop lunchtimes by students who knew exactly what they were doing, and so did he.
The kitchen was his other domain entirely, and he took it seriously. He sat at the counter with focused, dignified patience during cooking, on the off chance that something might fall his way. He had his space near his food bowl and he was clear about that boundary, as any self-respecting rescue dog has every right to be. He was, I always said, a great catch, but on his own terms.
He chased balls at full speed and did a little tuck and roll at the end, then hopped up to make absolutely sure everyone had seen him stick the landing. He never met a mud puddle he could resist, blowing bubbles and splashing with complete commitment. His favorite party trick was sticking his butt in the air and doing somersaults on the couch with crazy eyes until someone stopped what they were doing and paid him proper attention. It always worked.
At 4pm every single day, without fail, he insisted I put down the brush and walk several miles. I complained about this regularly and I would give anything to be pulled off the couch by him right now.
He kept me company while I painted and puttered all day, which meant I could talk out loud without looking like a crazy lady talking to herself. He made the studio feel safe and alive and inhabited.
He died on that studio couch looking out into the back yard, held by me, in the place he loved most. I can't think of a better place for him to have gone, and returning to the studio will be sad, but I know he is still there in his own way.
Walter was loved extravagantly by everyone who met him, and he accepted that love as his due, which was exactly right. He deserved every bit of it.
Rest easy, sweet boy. You were the best studio dog there ever was.
