Based on the number of emails I continue to receive about Wally the Wonderdog’s recent illnesses, it’s become crystal clear that he’s eclipsed me in popularity. For example, if I typed the following post into the Trout Underground:

“The wall of flames is at least 100 feet high and advancing towards us very rapidly. Little M & the L&T are safe, but the Wonderdog and I are in great peril.

The tiny pond in back offers the only hope of survival. Yet it’s only big enough for one of us.

Signing off now.”

Several of you would offer comments like:

Sorry to see you go Tom, but we’ll see to it the Wonderdog’s kept in kibble.”

Those that didn’t post some variant of that would be thinking it.

You ungrateful bastards.

That said, we weren’t entirely pleased with the Wonderdog’s progress when we returned home from Maine; the nasty spider bite (about the size of the smallest Orvis CFO reel) was still raw and pink, though thankfully, it wasn’t absessed or infected or septic or necrotic or any of those other medical words I really don’t like to hear.

The good news is the whole mess is finally skinning over (several Undergrounders suggested this would take longer than you’d think to heal), and we expect that he may actually commence with the hair growing any time now.

He’s apparently recovered from the other blueline-induced abuses, though we’re planning a visit to the vet soon to address what we fear is an arthritis issue.

Interestingly, the L&T and I did some mental math; we’d assumed he was in the neighborhood of 7.5-8 years old, but it’s more likely he’s 9.5 years old.

Shit.

See you with another Wonderdog Update (when appropriate), Tom [the less-popular] Chandler.

Wally the Wonderdog

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