Letting my dog Waldo out first thing in the morning is like uncorking warm champagne. From a bottle that’s been shaken. The door opens and Waldo explodes in twenty-five directions at once, a night’s worth of energy expended in one exuberant dash.

He has a couple of badly-frayed rope toys and he will grab one of them as he flies, shaking it furiously as he races toward his favorite tree. He has learned that he can bounce off the stockade fence, catapulting himself toward a tree branch that’s about six and a half feet off the ground, grab the branch in his mouth (after dropping the rope toy) and swing from it for a few moments. He lets go and drops to the ground with a loud “Ungh!”, then tears around the backyard like a gameshow contestant, racing to each of his favorite spots (usually where there are holes in the fence) before beginning the circuit all over again.

A number of years ago I visited the home of Ralph Waldo Emerson in Concord. It’s a wonderful place because most of his things are still there, right down to a beat-up hat hanging by the side door, waiting to be grabbed on his way out. I love to read Emerson’s essays and I remember thinking excitedly, “If I get a dog, I’m going to name him Waldo.”

It’s hard to convince people that my dervish is named not after the cartoon character, but after the premier American transcendentalist of the nineteenth century. But Emerson did write “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” which, I suppose, could be applied to Waldo. Like most dogs he is notoriously set in his ways. but his mind is always working on self-improvement. How to counter-surf faster, how to tease Jasper the sheltie in new ways, how to remind Rosie the collie that he will be the alpha.

When he was younger much of his energy was devoted to escaping the back yard, and he was successful a few times. One day a woman rang my doorbell to ask: Do you have a nutty black and white dog? She pointed to Waldo, who was furiously trying to get back into the back yard but couldn’t figure out how. When he saw me he ran into my arms and let me carry him into the house.

Another time Jasper “told” on him and I looked out to see Waldo’s tail disappear under the fence. I made the mistake of chasing him: across a busy street, through an alley filled with poison ivy, into someone’s back yard. It was like a dream–he kept me in sight, of course, but always at a distance of about twenty yards. He’s not a small dog, but he’s spindly and fast.

He spotted a woman coming out of a busy breakfast restaurant nearby, and I swear I could read the little thought-balloon over his head: “AHA, THIS will mortify her!” He disappeared past the startled diner into the restaurant, and for a brief moment as I approached I weighed my options: one–pretend he wasn’t my dog and head for home, or–two–face the music and follow him into the restaurant? Sigh. By the time I entered the cook was chasing Waldo around the dining room, where he briefly jumped into the lap of a man who was dreamily drinking his coffee and reading the paper (it was a Sunday morning). “Get him out of here!” the cook yelled, and then I screamed, “NO don’t let him out–I’ll get him!!” The Marx Brothers would have been proud of me as I tackled Waldo and carried him out. He was exhausted, as I was.

My little transcendentalist finally brought the tree branch down after whittling it away with his teeth by swinging from it one time too many. I’m surprised he didn’t try to bring it into the house, but it WAS about six feet long and had undoubtedly lost the allure it had when still attached to the tree. Now he’s got something going on the side of the house–it may be a fallout shelter or possibly just a place to bury Jasper. (I caught Jasper in it one day and could only see the top of his head.) I’ll have to keep my eye on this.

How could I resist this face?

Waldo is a testament to the dangers of roaming Petfinder unsupervised.   My 14-year-old collie Lily had died in April and my 6-month old sheltie Jasper needed a friend, so first thing every day I would find myself there, sniffing around for the perfect pet.  From week to week Petfinder remembered my parameters—Animal: Dog; Breed: Collie; Sex: Any; Age: Any.  I soon came to know the bewildered faces my search turned up, over and over, and I was usually relieved when I saw the “adoption pending” note near their pictures.  I actually applied for several candidates only to discover that I would not make the cut as an owner because I worked during day or my backyard fence was in poor shape.

And then one day I spotted an adorable male puppy listed by a Massachusetts rescue organization.  In his picture he was held firmly by two male hands; he was squinty and cute and described as part Aussie, part Border Collie.  “Border Collie” should have been my first warning but I disregarded it.  I only saw his remarkable coloring: not really merle, not really brindle, maybe harlequin?  I imagined having two puppies to play with—this would be fun!  So I filled out the online application and waited.

Two weeks and several phone calls later I sat in my car at 7:30 on a Wednesday morning in the parking lot of a municipal animal shelter, awaiting Waldo’s arrival.   He was not, it turned out, actually at the Massachusetts rescue (some 50 or so miles away) but at a shelter in Beebe, Arkansas (some 2000 miles away).  And now he was on the “puppy bus” making its way to Rhode Island, a prospect that had given me pause when I’d first learned of his whereabouts.  Little did I know that there are folks who make their living ferrying homeless southern animals (where overpopulation is at a critical point) to their new lives up north.  As I watched the bus pull into the lot I was expecting a smelly, traumatized puppy, but I was in for a surprise.

There were at least ten other dogs arriving at their “forever homes” that day.  Over and over again, dogs were fetched from the RV and placed in the arms of their new families while other family members and friends took pictures of that first hug, that first walk, the sweet strangeness of the meeting.  Some of the dogs were puppies and some were older dogs who had undoubtedly found their worlds fractured by this dislocation.  The human reaction to all this was beyond poignant.  I remember thinking that most of these people had probably taken time out of work to be here, had brought a new toy or a bag of treats, had gone to some length to bring these abandoned dogs into their households.

The pup that was handed to me was clean, happy (somewhat frantically, but that’s okay) and well-cared-for.  Nails trimmed, no fleas–he was even wearing a collar with a little dog tag bearing my name and address.  The bus (actually RV) driver handed me a neat manila envelope with his medical records and papers, and Waldo was mine.  In the car he wrapped his paws around my neck.  He had the beginnings of spindly legs and the longest tail I’d ever seen on a dog, and it wagged furiously as he sniffed, sniffed, sniffed.

Within five minutes of his arrival home Waldo had done his business on the couch, which, I suppose, is like hollering, “MINE–ALL MINE!”  Jasper had long since gotten used to a slow-paced life with an elderly collie, and he was visibly affronted by Waldo’s challenges to his territory.  Anyone who has known a Shetland Sheepdog will recognize the particular expression of  indignance that precedes a sheltie outburst.  Jasper was by that time a graduate of puppy kindergarten and I’m sure this speckled, untutored yahoo was the last thing he wanted to see.

He and Waldo would develop a tempestuous relationship, a rollercoaster of wild play and noisy competition.  But they came to a truce by bedtime that first night, which was good, because I was exhausted.