Fostering Fear

Fear is a powerful entity. I’ve seen it before, but the canines I’ve encountered have all had plenty of Hope and Love to defeat the dreaded demon. Until now.

I had contacted a rescuer named Amanda the week before Thanksgiving as she was looking for a temporary foster for a pittie mix pup. There was something special about this dog, and I had a feeling I’d be able to take this pup to work with me. It turned out many people thought this canine was a special soul because before she could call me back, an adopter was found.

She asked if I’d be interested in fostering another dog, and I said that I generally don’t unless I’m unemployed. Since I still had two weeks of work left, I wanted to wait until I was done. However, if it was a dire emergency and she thought a dog might be okay in an office setting, then I’d give it a whirl.

As we chatted, I browsed her adopt-a-pet page and came across a picture of a dog named Starlight. Something about his picture reminded me of my soul-dog Tia. In my mind, I wished I could foster him.

The next day Amanda called me and told me that she had a few dogs up at a trainer’s ranch that needed to find foster homes. The ranch was closing down. She thought Starlight would be a perfect fit for me. He was sweet and kind, and according to the trainer, probably would love to be an office dog.

I was hesitant to take him on because he was a whopping 70 pounds who had had trouble on leash. I told her that he had to be able to come to the office, or I couldn’t take him. She said she’d have a Plan B if it didn’t work out.

That little gut instinct let out a warning signal. But here’s the thing: I’ve taken in shelter dogs not knowing anything about them, so why not this dog? Maybe it was just Fear creeping in--Fear that it was a dog I couldn’t handle.

That initial instinct that he was the one I needed/wanted still held true. So, after almost backing out, I agreed to take him: my first foster while working.

His transport was delayed, and rather than coming in on Saturday giving me two days to work with him and get to know him, the transport didn’t arrive until Sunday evening at 5pm in Culver City. The sweet boy seemed to be just fine while I waited for Amanda to arrive with food, crate, and other essentials for his stay with me.

I had to hope that he’d be a great office dog and be house-trained, but he had just spent ten months at a trainer’s ranch. He was living a Dogtown-like life. He had his own kennel and spent his days with a pack of eight dogs who roamed in one of the many pens on twenty acres.

He had just ridden on the transport in a crate covered in a blanket in the back of a pickup truck. I assumed he’d be happy to be upgraded to first class. No more coach flying this kid: he was going to ride shotgun.

But alas, poor Starlight wasn’t too excited about getting back into a moving vehicle. I harnessed him into the passenger seat and the moment I opened the driver’s side door, he dove out, dangling by the tether. This wouldn’t be too bad if he was Norman’s size. But seventy pounds of squirming pit bull-mix canine is not easily wrangled.

I got him back in, squished myself into the driver’s seat and tried to calm him as he pressed into me, panting and crying. Okay, maybe car rides aren’t for him. But he might get used to it. I waited patiently for him to calm down and no longer be on top of me. Once on the freeway, he relaxed into the adventure, his legs draped across my lap, and his head center above the console watching the traffic on the 405.

As we chatted, I browsed her adopt-a-pet page and came across a picture of a dog named Starlight. Something about his picture reminded me of my soul-dog Tia. In my mind, I wished I could foster him.

The next day Amanda called me and told me that she had a few dogs up at a trainer’s ranch that needed to find foster homes. The ranch was closing down. She thought Starlight would be a perfect fit for me. He was sweet and kind, and according to the trainer, probably would love to be an office dog.

I was hesitant to take him on because he was a whopping 70 pounds who had had trouble on leash. I told her that he had to be able to come to the office, or I couldn’t take him. She said she’d have a Plan B if it didn’t work out.

That little gut instinct let out a warning signal. But here’s the thing: I’ve taken in shelter dogs not knowing anything about them, so why not this dog? Maybe it was just Fear creeping in--Fear that it was a dog I couldn’t handle.

That initial instinct that he was the one I needed/wanted still held true. So, after almost backing out, I agreed to take him: my first foster while working.

His transport was delayed, and rather than coming in on Saturday giving me two days to work with him and get to know him, the transport didn’t arrive until Sunday evening at 5pm in Culver City. The sweet boy seemed to be just fine while I waited for Amanda to arrive with food, crate, and other essentials for his stay with me.

I had to hope that he’d be a great office dog and be house-trained, but he had just spent ten months at a trainer’s ranch. He was living a Dogtown-like life. He had his own kennel and spent his days with a pack of eight dogs who roamed in one of the many pens on twenty acres.

He had just ridden on the transport in a crate covered in a blanket in the back of a pickup truck. I assumed he’d be happy to be upgraded to first class. No more coach flying this kid: he was going to ride shotgun.

But alas, poor Starlight wasn’t too excited about getting back into a moving vehicle. I harnessed him into the passenger seat and the moment I opened the driver’s side door, he dove out, dangling by the tether. This wouldn’t be too bad if he was Norman’s size. But seventy pounds of squirming pit bull-mix canine is not easily wrangled.

I got him back in, squished myself into the driver’s seat and tried to calm him as he pressed into me, panting and crying. Okay, maybe car rides aren’t for him. But he might get used to it. I waited patiently for him to calm down and no longer be on top of me. Once on the freeway, he relaxed into the adventure, his legs draped across my lap, and his head center above the console watching the traffic on the 405.

Fear happens. But dogs, like people, can overcome it. Starlight (whose name I had to change as soon as possible) rebounded well with the car. I had no doubts he would be up for other challenges. He had been in a foster home many months ago, so he had had a family-life, but it was half a lifetime ago for him. I hoped he remembered it quickly.

He walked easily on a leash, so either the trainer had done her job, or he hadn’t ever had the issue to begin with. His ad specified that he needed an “experienced” owner. There was no way this dog was getting adopted through his website. His name, his ad, his pictures... nothing was selling this pup.

Bringing him up to the kitchen door, I wasn’t expecting him to take a stand... or rather crouch. He wouldn’t cross the threshold.

I’ve seen a few dogs with this issue. It’s scary to enter a new place. I get that. Fear happens. I gave him a moment to try to work it out on his own, but I couldn’t wait for too long. I had to be work in 15 hours, and he needed to be able to handle it. A little coaxing, two feet through the doorway, and I had to haul him the rest of the way in before he tried to bolt away.

I closed the door and he scrambled into the corner, toppling over my shoes, and shivering with Fear. He trembled, panted, and almost knocked over a broomstick in his frenzy to try to disappear from this frightening situation.

First I tried to comfort him, but he would not accept my comfort. So I gave him some space to try to muster the courage himself. He kept staring at the reflection of him and me in the glass of the door. He was transfixed. He looked around the corner of the cabinet, and cowered at the sight of the galley kitchen and two more thresholds. How was I going to get this dog out of the kitchen?

Starlight needed time. He needed time and incentive to get off the uncomfortable pile of footwear and move forward into the room. He spit out treats I gave him. He wouldn’t come to me—who the hell was I? And so I turned down the lights to get rid of the reflection in the glass and went into the living room, allowing him to fight Fear himself.

Half an hour later, he walked over to the edge of the living room door. There he lay down and trembled, unable to cross the threshold.

There was no way this dog was going to the office. I’d never get him through the front door. And he didn’t respond to his name; his nomenclature more for purposes of networking than for practical application.

I left a message for Amanda telling her we needed to implement Plan B. The trainer might have thought he would like the office, but Starlight couldn’t even come indoors. Time was running out. I had to go to work in the morning and I needed a solution to him not going with me.

Starlight lay at the threshold of the kitchen for a good hour. I walked by him to use the bathroom and upon my return Fear rose its ugly head and he skittered back to the corner of the kitchen, huddled on top of my shoes again.

I couldn’t afford to give him the time he needed to work it out for himself. I took him by the harness, and guided him across the floor. He dragged his feet, not gaining traction on the slate. When his tail crossed the finish line just over the threshold into the living room, I sat down with the shivering mess of a canine. His back legs were unmovable, as if they had turned to stone.

I pet him until his legs became flesh again. He relaxed into the floor. I couldn’t push him any further. I was angry; this dog needed more help than I could give him. If I had been unemployed, he’d have all the time in the world to come to grips with this new situation. But I couldn’t risk my job. I had to go to work with only eight days remaining in my contract. I don’t have a job that I can call in sick.

Amanda called me back and I told her my problem. “He needs someone who has the time to work with him. I’ve never seen a dog this terrified. He can’t move.”

“I have nowhere for him to go tonight,” she said.

And that was it: nowhere for him to go. Packing him up and taking him to boarding in the morning wasn’t going to help this kid. He needed a foster. He needed security. He needed someone to help him discover his own confidence. What had the trainer been doing all these months?

My friend tried to bring out my own confidence. “You’ve had difficult dogs before. You always make it work. Yes, the dog needs therapy, I agree, but you’ll find a way to handle this. You always do.”

That’s what made me angry: I would find a way—because I had to. Now that the dog had entered my life, how could I turn him away? Sending him back to the trainer wouldn’t get him a home. Sending him to boarding wouldn’t get him used to house-living. And there were no other fosters who were willing and able to take him.

I was his only option. And now that I met him, I couldn’t give up on him.

Shit. I hate that about myself. My endless supply of Hope doesn’t allow me to give up or let Fear win—even if the Fear isn’t my own. But how the hell would I have time to do this?

I showed Starlight the dog bed I had across the room. It registered in his eyes, but he made no move toward it. I brought it closer to him. He raised his muzzle to sniff in its general direction, but still no movement. I brought it right up to him, and placed one of his paws on the soft bed. He let me place the other paw, and within half a second he scooched up his rear end and collapsed onto the dogbed.

There, he promptly closed his eyes, exhausted from the battle with Fear which had won the day.

I had never seen Fear win. A small battle, here and there, sure. But this was not good. Where was the Hope, the Love, the arsenal of weapons needed to combat such an enemy?

Starlight’s story was a tragic one. It was no wonder that Fear had overtaken him.

Found roaming the streets of Big Bear, he and his canine companion were chased by Animal Control. He zigged, his friend zagged... right into the path of an oncoming car. Starlight watched his only friend be killed, and without a moment to process that, the animal control officer focused her chase on him.

The officer caught up to the traumatized and shaking Starlight, and wrapped her catchpole loop around his neck. Starlight balked and fought, and she hung him high, choking him, trying to make him cease his thrashing. By the time he reached the shelter, he was on the edge of unconsciousness.

Starlight survived only a brief time in the shelter before his number was called. He was a sweet soul, but sweet, timid souls don’t make it out of the shelter alive. The person who had to euthanize him simply couldn’t do it. She called Amanda and begged her to help. She just couldn’t be the one to take this tragic soul’s life away.

Amanda didn’t have the funds or the ability to take him, but just like me, once a dog is in her life, she can’t turn him away. She found him a foster home and away Starlight went to live with a family.

As she and I spoke and I watched Starlight slumbering across the living room, she remembered that his first foster home also had trouble with his timidness. He didn’t leave the crate for two full days. But that had been ten months ago. 

The foster home sadly couldn’t keep him so Amanda made arrangements for him to be boarded at a ranch with a trainer. Starlight couldn’t walk on a leash; he was terrified of anything around his neck, and rightly so. He would cower to the ground and refuse to move. I use a harness with all dogs, so to me Starlight walked just fine—unless he didn’t want to go somewhere, i.e. through a doorway.

Amanda had given me a giant crate to use, and although I am not a fan of crating dogs, I had no other choice. Starlight couldn’t come to work with me. What was the difference of him being put in boarding versus being in a crate all day at my house? I had to come home in the middle of the day to walk him. It was a major inconvenience, but it was only a three-day week. I would have to make it work.

I couldn’t give up on this poor traumatized kid. He needed more than Love and Hope. He needed more than I could give him, but right now I was the only one giving him anything.

Amanda needed to find a new foster for him. But in the meantime, I had said Yes... I was all Starlight had. I didn't have the time and patience he needed right now, and that made me angry. My friend was right though: I’d make it work. Somehow. I just had to make it three days. Three days, and then I could give Starlight all the time he needed to battle Fear and finally win the war forever.

A Beagle's Blessing

The past few weeks haven’t been much of note. If canines could be described like houses, Norman would be a turn-key dog. He slept in the fireplace as I unpacked and organized my office; he was there to greet me when I returned from my daily ventures of commerce. We had cuddle time each morning after breakfast, and he got used to—and even liked—human contact.

He sat on my lap on the deck; he slept by my side on the couch at night while I watched TV. Norman was a fixture. In fact, I’ve lived longer in this house with Norman, than without.

And so today it was with bittersweet joy that I took him to his forever home.

The previous adopters I spoke of ending up flaking out. And thank goodness—for both Norman, and his new mom and dad. Chris and Melissa, Norman’s fans and adopters came down to meet Norman at the adoption event yesterday.

Inside PetCo is not a terribly conducive place to meet your best friend for life. In a windowless section of the store, stacks of crates contained little yappy dogs. None of them wore adoption bandanas. People couldn’t just reach down and pet them; they had to curl their fingers through the bars of the crate just to have some contact.

I sat with Norman at the end of the crate row, hoping people could figure out that he was up for adoption. I had one bandana that I had somehow retained from another foster, a pink Best Friends Adopt Me one. However, I took it off him the moment I got there. As much as I like to say, “It takes a real man to wear pink,” I didn’t want people thinking Norman was a girl. He’s a dude. And if you don’t believe him (and even if you do), he’ll prove it. 

Sans adoption bandana, people thought he was my dog. Despite my awkward position sitting on the floor of a store next to a line of dog crates, no one seemed to understand. Luckily, the potential adopters showed up, and I was relieved of having to sit with Norman next to a crate of puppies: the three were completely asleep, and yet this was more attention-worthy than my super-awesome awake foster dog who would greet you with a tail wag and a kiss on the hand.

Chris and Melissa came into the area and Norman immediately introduced himself. I noted that unlike the previous week, Norman was more outgoing, as if he understood that he was out there to sell himself and find his perfect family. 

It was Chris, not Melissa who was the driving force of this adoption vehicle. The bond between a boy and his dog is sacred, and I could see that Chris was yearning for that connection.  Melissa, his girlfriend of three years, had never owned a pet, so she wasn’t against it; she was just the clear-headed one. Chris had had a cocker spaniel growing up, and had spoken of getting a dog for some time. However, their living quarters hadn’t been suitable for a dog. Now they had some outdoor space, a lot of indoor space, and felt it was better conditions for raising a dog.

Norman flashed his beautiful smile to Chris, who melted upon first sight. Melissa needed some convincing, being the more realistic one of the pair. She was impressed with Norman’s calm demeanor, and how he didn’t react to other dogs yelling at him (for some canine reason, little white fluffy dogs hated Norman that day—they barked viscously, lashing out from their crates.) Norman just calmly walked away.

Katya couldn’t make it, as she was pulling another beagle, Arnold, from the South LA shelter. She really had wanted to adopt Norman herself, but house rules (when in a relationship and in rescue, it’s important to have and maintain boundaries) dictated a three dog rule: if she adopted Norman, she could not foster again. And so, Katya freed Norman to be with someone else.

I lay on the couch with Norman today for our after-breakfast cuddle. I looked him in the eye and tried not to tear up. “You now you’ve helped me marvelous much, Norman. You came into my life because I needed you.”

He looked back as if surprised by the words. “But now I’m okay. And these two people, Chris and Melissa that you met yesterday: they need you now. Now they are your purpose.”

Norman cocked his head, paying close attention to me. Perhaps he was trying to discern why my emotions were on the brink of spilling out. That’s the problem with dogs: you think you can hide your feelings, but they’re not just looking for tears; they smell your sadness, they feel your pain; you can’t hide it from them.

“I can’t tell you what you need to do; all I know is they’ve chosen you because they need you. I am so grateful for all you’ve done for me, but now you’ve fulfilled your purpose with me. It’s time for you to help someone else.”

I knew my tears were my own self-pity. Norman was going to a great home. He’d be happy there. He’d be Chris’ little buddy, and I had feeling he’d win over Melissa in short order. I had no right to be sad.

I had envisioned the first foster dog in my home to be a big, bumbling pit bull. I never imagined this awkward cuddler beagle mix. Sometimes what we imagine isn’t what we truly need. I needed Norman—this sweet little boy who needed some R&R, who needed to learn about human affection, and who needed some time to prepare for his big mission of his forever family.

I have grown accustomed to hearing his nails on the patio door as he shifts in his sleep on the bed; the sound of his groans as he stretches, the smile on his face as he greets me each morning at my bed, telling me it’s time to get up and start my day.

Norman is my first real foster: the one I said I would keep until he found a home or I found a job. The universe was kind enough to give us both simultaneously: Norman got a home, and I start a job tomorrow.

Strange, how it all works out. Harry was the same way: I needed him to find a home, and he has a fantastic forever home, one he acquired only hours before I started my new job. 

Norman was who I needed during this hot and dry August. He didn't just provide me with companionship; he did his own repairs on this abode. This house is a now home because of him; paint on the walls and doorknobs on the doors does not a home make. It’s a home because a dog found peace here; solace. It’s a home because it has welcomed a canine spirit to recuperate and become whole again.

Watching Norman walk around his new mom and dad's house, the sadness I felt from the morning dissolved. I stood next to Katya and whispered, “How can I be sad? Look how happy he is.”

She smiled and said, “Yeah, it’s heart-breaking. You love them so much and then when they’re in the right home, they’re just like, ‘See ya!’”

We explained to Chris and Melissa that Norman might look sad initially (although he currently wasn't mourning), but he’d recover from the separation faster than I would.  He really looked happy. He even surmounted the challenge of a full flight of stairs. (He only had three stairs to get onto the deck.) The four of us cheered him on his way up the stairs to the bedroom.

There he found carpet—something my home lacked. He has two fireplaces just like this place; his new mom and dad just need to clean them out, and the dragon will have his lair again.

I don’t know how people foster for months on end. How do you say good-bye? I gave Norman a hug, but I didn’t want him to feel my sadness, to see my tears. I did it quickly and certainly he was confused when he was told to stay while I left. Chris later said that Norman was sad that first day, but I imagine it was more uneasiness in a new place. At least, I’d like to think so.

We take these animals in and teach them to trust, show them that it’s okay to love and they won’t get hurt. And yet in only a short time, we leave them. We know why we leave them, but do they?

I guess we’ll never know. I believe some of my dogs knew. But not all. I still think of Tia, and wonder if I had had this place when I knew her last year, if she would still be here.

There are dogs you love and dogs you fall in love with. I fell in love with Tia. I didn’t fall in love with Norman, but I love him with all my heart; he’s a special kid with a big purpose--or maybe multiple ones. He’s got this amazing personality and sweet soul that was meant to do big things here on this planet.

Norman, I loved you and still love you. I hope one day you’ll see that it’s my love for you that made me say goodbye, so Chris and Melissa would have the honor of loving you. You are not my dog, but you are a good dog—no, you’re a great dog.

My tears are for myself, not for you. My tears are shed for the emptiness that is in my home now, but my heart is still full of the joy you gave me. You are in a great home, with two people who will always love you and never leave you. You will have canine companions at the park, a dog walker who adores your every footfall, and two fireplaces in which to lie in.

I shall miss you, dear Norman, but I know that your job here is complete. I can fix the house as much as physical repairs can heal physical wounds, but a canine spirit provides strength and vitality, healing the soul of a home. I thank you for infusing this house with the canine spirit. You are the first of many (and I am so grateful for that) who will find peace and rest and play and fun here in a brief stopover on their way to their forever home.

Norman, you are the honored first guest, kicking off a long future tradition here on the Avenue of the Beautiful View. This house, and my heart, will always be open to canines who are welcome to stay as long as they need. Thank you for your smile and for your spirit. I carry your smile in my heart, and my house has become a home because of you. I, and all the future canine guests, thank you for blessing this house--and my life--with your presence.