Notes on Foster Number 23

When I see the caller ID from the animal rescue director, I always experience a degree of panic.

After fostering over twenty dogs for her going back several years, I have come to approach the possibility of a new foster with a combination of dread and hopeful anticipation.  There are a number of elements of the unknown when one of these animals comes into the home.  What will their behavior be when they arrive? Will they be fearful?  Destructive?  Agressive?  Noisy?  Potty trained?  Crate trained?  Healthy or with medical issues?  Walkable on a leash?

Then there is the question of what kind of relationship will be established as the time approaches for their eventual adoption.  Will I be anxious for them to leave, out of frustration with their progress and the challenges of their care, or will they have evolved into a wonderful pet that I can barely stand to imagine gone from the house forever.

Most often, there is a lot of doubt and anxiety as they arrive, and at least several days need to go by before it's possible to imagine them living here without any major issues.  Then things get sorted out, and we and they generally figure each other out and things start to work smoothly enough.  As I look back over the years I have been doing this, it often seems as though I have had over twenty pets, of the kind that most people have maybe once or twice over the entire course of their lives.  At least with the majority of the foster dogs, they go to homes that appear to offer them a wonderful continuation of their lives, probably much better than they have ever known before.

Most of my fosters are adult females.  Some are momma dogs just seperated from their litters.  The one that arrived after the alarming call a week ago was an adult, but as small as a young puppy of some breeds.  She was a Terrier mix, I was told on the phone, and in need of some dedicated one-on-one time.  The rescue director looks on my home as a place that does especially well with dogs that have special emotional needs.  We once received an award from them that read "Most Comprehensive Rehabilitation Fosters".  I find this a bit ironic, as I often seem to barely cope with life's demands and frustrations myself.

This latest foster was named Muffin.  She was so fearful that I could not approach or touch her for periods of time, and she would make no eye contact with me.  Her tail never wagged, something that continued for several days. Fortunately, she eventually decided that her crate was the best place to hide out.  Initially, she spent most of her time there, but would let me leash her in there to get her out in the yard.

I walked around the back yard the first night for an hour leading up to midnight, waiting for her to pee so I could go to bed.  She woke me up at 4:30 banging around the crate, and I went out again in the frozen back yard wearing a bathrobe, finally coaxing her back inside by holding the door wide open for several minutes.

I had purchased a harness for her the day after she arrived, but had my doubts about ever getting her into it

or taking her for a walk, she seemed so fearful.  It took several days for her to warm up to me.  Then, going out in the yard started to happen more easily, and getting her back in the house became less of a problem.  She began to let me pick her up without any panic.  A few days ago, I though about how much time she was spending in the crate, and went and got her out with the leash, picked her up, and placed her on my lap while I read at my desk.  Later, after she had returned to the crate, she emerged on her own, walked over to where I again sat at the desk, and waited for me to pick her up for more lap time.  Her tail even wagged - finally.

Later, I led her to my bedroom when I was going to nap, and she accepted the invitation to jump up, and promptly snuggled against me.  Last night, for the first time, instead of latching her in the crate for the night, I let her sleep in my bed all night.  She is almost exactly the same size as a stuffed dog I have to confess I sleep with, and it was nice to have a real dog stretched out by me for a change.  Over the past few days, we enjoyed several nice longer walks around the neighborhood, her sporting the new red harness.

Muffin's new family.

This morning, we took her to the weekly adoption event, where we were met by a retired couple that had seen her the week before, the day I received the call.  They had decided to adopt her, and I learned that they could offer her all the best things in a new home - both were obviously dog people with the right kind of sensitivty and apparent kindness for her continued progress, they were both home almost all the time, and they had another small dog of a similar type.  She went home with them, and they offered to let me come by tomorrow and visit her.  I plan to do so, and expect I will find things working out well there.

It really surpised me this time, how radical the shift was from my despair at this little dog's traumatic state when she arrived, to enjoying an affectionate and attentive little pet just as the time arrived for today's handoff to her new family.  The first several days of being responsible for her I vowed never to do this again, but after the experience was complete, I lost some of that resolve.  I also couldn't help but think of all the homlier adult dogs I had seen crated at the adoption event, many of whom probably ended the day un-adopted as people favored the numerous cute little puppies.  I wondered if those older remnants had good foster homes to retreat to this afternoon, until next week's opportunity to find a family of their own.