I Accepted the "Call"

One reason for my inexcusably long absence blogging here is that I am caring for a foster basenji, a one-year-old bundle of raw energy who requires constant supervision. Java plays so hard and so rough that I often have to be the bad guy and break up the "fun" so that one of the dogs during the frenzy doesn't break a neck or crush a skull after a collision with a hard piece of furniture. If Java gets hurt on my watch, the news is sure to be broadcasted on the organization's email list, and I'll become another "inexperienced" foster parent who killed the shelter rescue the organization was trying to save. When Java finally falls asleep, he insists on draping himself over me, making even laptop work difficult.

This experience began a week ago Tuesday when I discovered an URGENT email asking for foster help, preferably in Florida [Java's first foster dad had died unexpectedly]. Although I am an official member of the rescue group, I do not share the animal welfare passion that some of the vocal members espouse. So normally I ignore such requests because I don't want to get involved with someone I worry will be a nutcase. Emails from the list are sometimes lunatic:

"Honey, if your husband insists that you get rid of the dog, get rid of the husband!"

"If you continue striking your dog as punishment, you should be taken out in the street and shot!"

"I heard that police and the National Guard are ordered to shoot all loose dogs on sight in New Orleans! Oh my god! What should we do?!"

Often I don't have the patience to read the nonsense, so I just mass delete all of the email from the group. Last Tuesday, however, I felt that "call to adventure" that I've been writing so much about and decided that I really shouldn't ignore it. The coordinator for this dog did not know me [I never post to the email list], so I was sure I would get rejected as a foster parent, but I decided to attempt to start the adventure at least. In my reply email, I name-dropped the coordinator I had worked with when I adopted Bug, included the web address of my basenji site so that she could see my own dogs, and steeled myself for a "Sorry, we've found someone else." The coordinator agreed to let me help, however, because I was close to Java's current location.

When I got home the next day, I picked up the house and debated whether to vacuum or not. Dog hair on furniture and floors indicates to rescue people that animals are allowed inside and share their lives with their owners [a good sign]. The picture I had formed in my head of the coordinator, however, was someone wealthy and snobbish, so I vacuumed. I also spent a good deal of time kicking myself: "Hey, Sparky, when was the last time you washed the baseboards? Why haven't you finished painting the dining room? What poor foster dog would want to live here?"

I relaxed a little when an ancient Toyota pulled into my driveway [I had expected a Cadillac Escalade with the dog crated in the back]. The coordinator turned out to be a very nice woman with a gentle but firm dog-training voice. We walked Java into the backyard, and I went to get Yo-Yo for her introduction to the puppy. I had explained to the coordinator that Yo-Yo loved everyone and would cause no problems. So of course when I let her loose, she immediately tried to kill Java. The coordinator said that this kind of thing happened all the time, that maybe Bug would surprise me. I took Yo-Yo back inside [where, during my absence, she peed on the sofa] and brought out Bug, usually the aggressive one, especially with other males. To my surprise, Bug immediately began playing with Java, racing happily around the yard so that Java could chase him. We tried all three of them together, and with plenty of supervision, Yo-Yo eventually decided Java could live [although she's still not happy about his presence in our lives].

The problem now is that I have become attached to the little guy. No, I don't want to adopt him [Two of the breed, believe me, are enough], but I do want assurance that he gets a home that understands his needs. He is the most high-energy dog I have ever met. He never walks; when it's not a full-out race to get where he's going, he bounces, twirls, or leaps. He's also an incorrigible door-darter. I've been using the back door exclusively so that the fenced yard acts as a safety net, but I'm concerned that the folks in his "forever home" might not be willing to make that sacrifice, leading to his escape and getting hit by a car. The coordinator seems very picky about potential adopters, so I trust her judgment, but ... I can't help thinking that I alone would provide the ideal home.

I knew that I would feel this way. I decided to volunteer this time because I like the idea of an occasional needy dog who could benefit from my care, but I need to know that I can give the animal up without too much emotional distress. I know that I can't adopt every foster without turning into that strange old lady with the weird breed of dogs. I guess I'll see. It took two weeks before I signed the papers for Bug, and he was already in my care. I imagine Java will be around for at least that long, maybe longer.

Java and Bug enjoying the sun

Java and Bug inspecting the yard for squirrel intrusion