Here's how my dog fostering goes down: On Saturday I excitedly complete my chores so I am ready to head out to Petsmart around 12:45 to drop off my foster dog at the adoption event. At these events I am surrounded by other dog lovers--my peeps, as I have come to think of them. Are some of the men wearing tank tops tucked into light, high-waisted jeans? Yes. Do all of the women brush their hair? No. What's it to you? LEAVE US ALONE!
I usually look at all the dogs and imagine which one I will bring home later that day. I also loiter and hope people will ask questions about my foster dogs that only I know the answer to. Thirty minutes of this is the absolute maximum I allow myself. If I let myself stay all day, I don't feel good inside. I don't know--It's a little desperate, don't you think?
I go do errands, live my life (I do have one, in spite of how it might sound), and return at 4pm to check out the leftovers. Happily, each dog I have fostered so far has been adopted. I like to think it has something to do with how I care for them that week they spend at my house. But probably not. Someone drove down from San Bernadino to adopt my Border Collies. And my dear Mimi was snatched up by some loving Mexicans. So I brought home a 3 month old pure bred German Shepherd who I named Frances. I thought she had no name, but it occurs to me only now that "Baby Girl" might be her actual name and not just a description. (Stupid name.)
And it is really at this point that you must avert your eyes because if I didn't lose you at "adoption event" or "here's more about my stinking foster dogs" then you really won't be able to look at Frances without falling in love with her. I'm seriously warning you.
This is the first dog I've fostered that feels like my dog. Christian disappeared with her the first night on a long walk. We love her. When I look at her I feel the way I must have felt when I met my son Ben in the pre-existence. I picture her as a full-grown German Shepherd with a backpack full of Diet Coke walking to and fro with me and doing my bidding. But still, as I type this she's howling in her crate. There's no way around it: puppies are a pain. So if someone wonderful adopts her I'll be happy. Or I'll run out of the store with her and shove her in my car and drive away.