This past weekend, I was enjoying the (relative) silence in my house. My daughter and my last foster dog, Charley Girl, both left last Monday – my daughter to WVU for her last semester, Charley to her new home in Riverdale in the Bronx. Since I moved back into my house in late March, I’ve been making up for lost time and fostering pretty much non-stop, one pup after another.
Charley making friends with Aunt Sue
First it was Marco, an adorable but painfully shy “dorkie” (a silly name for a dachshund/yorkie mix). At first he hid behind my couch any time someone came in, and he actually nipped my sister, but he eventually got more comfortable around strangers. He also had never in his life been walked outside on a leash, so he had some housebreaking issues. I even published some photos and video of him on Facebook so others could follow his progress.
[An aside: Frankly, I am not a very good trainer, despite the revolving cast of pooches over the past few years and time spent at the shelter observing how OTHER people train dogs. I’m not consistent enough. I learned this long ago with my dog Loki. Even after paying money we didn’t have to a professional trainer (who reminded me of a young Phil Simms), I was unable to sustain the lessons Loki learned after the trainer was no longer around. My dog Munchie, who we adopted back in October of 2010, right after my mother passed away, still does not come when called, which often turns into a battle of wills on those mornings when I neglect to close my bedroom door and he scoots under the bed and refuses to come out for walkies.]
We brought Marco to an Adopta-palooza event in Union Square in NYC, where we met a lovely family from Brooklyn who had come in specially to meet him. The two kids were absolutely smitten, and the precious photos they sent me afterward made me glad that Marco had chosen them as his new family.
After Marco left, it wasn’t long before Wilson came into our lives. Wilson was found wandering the streets of Bay Shore, a town in Suffolk where Posh Pets has a new “satellite site” (a house owned by Posh Pets shelter director and second-in-command Melissa). Evidently he was having his way with the ladies in the neighborhood and had knocked up one of the local gals, and no one had any idea where he came from or who he belonged to: no collar, no microchip, but fully intact in his maleness, if you know what I mean. After a diligent but fruitless search, Mel decided she would just take him in and make him “posh” so he could be safe and his days as a “deadbeat dad” lothario would end.
Wilson and my daughter (who had just arrived home for the summer) developed a serious connection. When a couple living in Long Beach fell in love and adopted him in short order, my daughter was FURIOUS at me for taking him to their house without her having a chance to say goodbye. I offered to take her over there – they live only a few blocks away – so she could see him one last time, but she didn’t want to. It turned out to not be the last we saw of him, though, because I told the couple I would dog sit if they ever went away (and I even volunteered my daughter to walk him, if they wanted).
Wilson, literally underfoot
Sure enough, they took me up on my offer for a few days at the same time that Charley was here, which put me at maximum capacity of nine four-legged creatures plus two humans (four dogs, five cats). It was a little hairy in the beginning, because Charley and Wilson DID NOT LIKE EACH OTHER and engaged in a couple of scary scraps. We had to lock Charley away in my room for the first day. We briefly considered bringing her back to the shelter, because we’d only had her for a couple of days and it had really been only a trial run, because Charley was a very high energy doggie who my daughter actually warned me against taking home. But we figured it was better being locked in a bedroom with a big comfy bed than being at the shelter, with barking dogs and cement floors and cages, and after some tentative tête-à-têtes, the two became good buddies for the five days Wilson (now called Trey, short for “Sammy the Third”) was with us. Plus my daughter got to say her official goodbyes.
Charley and Wilson, finally buds
Between Wilson and Charley we had Baby Bella (in fact, Bella and Wilson were together for one remarkably calm night), a beautiful little Yorkie who was only with us for about a week before she was snatched up by a family from Connecticut. They were smitten at first sight and I’m confident they’ll treat that sweetie like a queen.
Bella (top) and Wilson (bottom)
That’s the thing about fostering: People always ask me, “How can you give them up? Doesn’t it break your heart?” Actually, it doesn’t, because I believe they’re going to good homes where they will be loved. I mean, there’s no guarantee – the folks at Posh Pets, who do a painstaking job of checking references and analyzing situations to find the best fit for their wards, still have animals returned to them, unfortunately. But my sense, with every adopter of one of my fosters, is that they were going to a place where they would be loved and doted on and valued as a member of a family, which is all you ever want for an orphaned or abandoned animal. The bonus is that every foster baby that gets adopted leaves an “opening” for me to take on another one.
Of course, I did fail once, with my precious nut-job Gizmo. And I may very well fail again. Yesterday, when I thought I might be foster free for a little while, finally able to give my guys a break from having to share my attention, Linda, Posh Pets’ founder and queen, called to ask if I could take on a special case: little Polly, a female Shih-Tzu, about 6 or 7 years old, who had been adopted by a young woman from Linda years ago but who now was moving to California and couldn’t take Polly with her. Then Linda thought she might have found an adoptive family, but they ended up keeping Polly for only one night before deciding she was more than they could handle.
Polly, you see, has some kind of neurological damage that makes it difficult for her to walk, although she does manage to do so, even though she looks a bit like a drunken sailor. I’ve taken to calling her Polly Wobbles. She’s very sweet but very confused, as you might imagine after being torn from the home (and thoroughly undeserving parent, if I may be a bit judgy) she has known for over five years. She wouldn’t walk when we went out with the boys, which forced me to carry her, and when I brought her out separately, she didn’t walk then, either. Linda assures me that she does walk; I haven’t seen it since she’s been here, but time will tell.
Polly Wobbles (that face!)
I worry about who will adopt Polly. There’s a couple we know, good friends of Posh Pets named Tom and Mary, who take on “special needs dogs” (including Little Miss Lexi, who is the most adorable little angel on wheels and has her own Facebook page), but they’re chock full at the moment. I told Linda anyone who adopts her has to be very special, but she already knows that. Which makes me think that Polly Wobbles might be here for a while. But that’s okay with me, and Gizmo and Munchie (and even the cats) seem to like her okay. Polly is my 12th foster dog (and 13th foster overall, if you count this precious kitten named Egypt who we had only long enough to give us all ringworm a couple of summers ago), so I guess I qualify as “experienced” now! Keep ‘em coming!