My husband Rob and I have fostered 7 dogs over the past few years that have gone on to be successfully adopted into their forever homes. We didn't start out thinking that this was what we'd be doing, though.
In 2007, when Rob and I got married, I read a news article about fostering a dog, and we thought that was something we could do. We didn't have kids, we didn't have any other pets of our own, we had a house in the suburbs, and while we weren't willing to commit to owning and caring for a dog full time, we could give one a temporary home. I knew we could!
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I filled out the foster application online for a local rescue, sent it in, and I waited....and waited. In the meantime, I stocked our pantry with dog food, dog treats, toys, and got a dog bed. I kept waiting.
One day I picked up the phone and called the rescue. I said, "I'm just curious as to why my husband and I were rejected as fosters. We're nice people. We have friends, and our neighbors seem to like us. It's okay that you don't want us to foster one of your dogs, but can you tell me why? Why don't you like us?" I really wanted to know.
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The harried sounding woman on the other end of the line (more on that later - That harried sounding woman is now me) asked, "Um...who are you people again?" I heard the rustling of a mountain of paperwork falling off her desk as she asked if she could call us back.
The next day we were invited to the harried lady's house to meet our first foster dog. Yoda was a 13 year old, blind Border Collie. She didn't like other dogs and most definitely did not like cats. She wasn't fond of small children, either. She couldn't go to adoption events for all of these reasons, and we were asked to keep her at our house, and to do meet and greets with possible adopters (of which I was sure there would be many).
She came with a very long, Japanese name that her former owners gave her when they got her as a puppy 13 years ago. They were moving out of the country and were not taking her with them. Rob and I, being science fiction geeks, promptly nicknamed her Yoda.
We didn't really know much of anything about dogs, but 13 is pretty old for a dog. We went to meet Yoda, who was blind as a bat and racing around the harried woman's backyard, somehow not falling into her pool or stumbling down the steps.
We took her home, and I sat in the back seat of the car with Yoda, a large, black and white furry bundle of Border Collie. Yoda's former owners had lived in NYC. She never been in a car before, and she was terrified. She buried her head in my chest and whimpered for 45 solid minutes before we arrived home.
The next three weeks were a blur. My husband would wake at 5:00 am to take Yoda out for her daily 3 mile walk. She had no teeth left, so he used to cook her soft foods mixed with chicken. We never crated her. We'd wake up or come home to find her asleep on our couch. We gave her a bath and brushed out her long, beautiful coat. I waited for the adoption applications to come pouring in, and I steeled myself for the day I'd have to let her go.
Then one day my husband ran into the house, handed me his checkbook (which, in itself is odd since Rob is generally a tightwad) and said, "Write the rescue a check for Yoda. She's not going anywhere."
That was the day we became foster failures and Yoda officially became Yoda Novak. We had Yoda for the next 3 years until she quietly died in our arms at age 16.
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