Walter’s Christmas was happy – and delicious.

Walter is my granddog. I have loved him since our first meeting. My bachelor son, Bart, adopted the 8-week old puppy 8 years ago. They’ve been attached at the hip ever since.

Bart and Walter, a white Labrador Retriever, live downtown in Annapolis, Maryland. The inlets of Chesapeake Bay, are the perfect splash playground for a water-loving retriever’s romps. During their morning and evening walks, Walter has acquired oodles of friends. Some locals refer to him as the 4-legged mayor of Annapolis – even the sentries at the Naval Academy know him by name. He is easy-going, well-mannered, and always been in pretty good shape. Until recently.

His friendships caught up with him. His fans slipped him too many treats, too often. A recent veterinarian’s visit resulted in a suggestion to lose 10 pounds of his 110-pounds total weight. Bart put him on a diet, being especially attentive to those unwanted snacks. Unwanted by Bart. Not Walter.

When they arrived for Christmas weekend, we did the usual prep of laying a dining room chair across the entry to the laundry room. Our cat, Finian, drinks and dines there.

Back in Walter’s puppyhood, he smelled Finian’s food dishes about three seconds after bounding through our back door. Following his nose, he made a quick dash into the laundry room and consumed Finian’s wet and dry food dishes instantly. One slurp each.

We had to block the door from the dog while still allowing Finian access to his chow. The dining room chair on its side does the trick, although it’s a bit of a challenge in the early morning for Finian’s not-so-agile feeders.

This Christmas, Walter’s trip was challenging because the poor little guy was restricted in his snacking. He often parks beside me in the kitchen during dinner prep. He is eternally hopeful for the fallout from chopping, slicing, etc., but last week was harder. I had to be neater. If a grape or a piece of celery fell, I didn’t worry, but no red meat could accidently drop between his paws.

Walter, until two Thanksgivings ago, never invaded forbidden territory – the kitchen table or counters. Bart proclaimed, “He never bothers anything like that.” Well-trained, he never had. Until that day. Left alone briefly, he destroyed an apple and a blueberry pie. By the time he finished, the kitchen and family room had new color schemes. And his “good-boy” dining habits changed forever.

Around food, Walter is no longer trustworthy.

A friend made me three containers of Christmas cookies – two dozen frosted cut-outs and a dozen BIG sugar cookies, Dear Richard’s favorite. I intended to create a cookie platter. After dinner cleanup, I rethought the cookie platter and consolidated them – out of harm’s way. Most

of the cut-outs went into a covered bowl, the remainder in one plastic container with the sugar cookies. And a snap lock.

Pleased and proud of not tempting the dieting quadruped, I headed to the feathers. Whooped.

The next morning revealed the evidence. The plastic box, tightly packed with cookies, was on the kitchen floor. Empty. The butter dish, unwittingly left on the dining room table, was licked clean. And Finian’s small snack pack in the den was heavily chewed … and empty. Walter had totally cased the joint and found it delicious. So much for the diet. “Bad dog. Bad dog,” didn’t really cover it.

We had a crusty European bread with our dinner that night, which I closed up tightly and stored out of reach. I had some French toast plans for the remaining 60% of the loaf. The following morning, it had been discovered and devoured, the bag on the floor.

Christmas morning led to the discovery of the large empty box of cat snacks. It was the refill supply for Finian’s morning treats. I was beginning to fear for my vitamin stash.

Then Walter – my sweet, lovable, good boy – endeared himself to no one. All those stolen carbohydrates caught up with him. He farted. He tooted. He let ‘er rip. “Oh, Walter, that is disgusting,” said Bart, leaping to his feet and flapping – trying to wave the odor away. I guess there was no escaping it, except for me. Long Covid took my smeller, so I could still pet him and hug him.

A best-selling, hilarious children’s book, “Walter the Farting Dog” came to life in our living room. Quick open the porch door.

But never mind. Poor Walter, one of nature’s ordained eating machines, had been put on a diet. He responded to this insult by doing naturally what Retrievers do best. He hunted. He retrieved. And he perfumed the air… with “Eau de Walter’s Delicious Christmas.”

He’ll be back in July. Outdoors.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.