I love dogs. I love all dogs more than I love most people. When I was little and some creative writing prompt or random adult would ask what I'd do with a million dollars, I said I would buy a mansion for dogs and give them all their own rooms w a fireplace, patio, and dogbed and I'd sell them for $1 to families who wanted them. Not a great business model, but I was dead serious. I remember even drawing a mansion full of dogs looking out the like 100 windows and stick figure me smiling in front.
In my 20s, we left Zylo with a woman who ran a dog boarding business on some average in the country between the cities and Rochester and her beautiful little office and the sprawling sunrise views full of dogs became my retirement dream. My kid beat has the ball rolling by starting his own petsitting business at age 8, and I love having new friends here all the time.
So when the opportunity came to foster dogs in need who were living in high kill shelters, I knew I could do it. I had so much judgement for the people who put them in there and a lot of high and mighty feelings about rectifying what they did wrong. The Universe decided I needed to get kicked down a couple pegs.
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I started by fostering kittens. We kept a litter of 5 farm kittens I saw in need on Facebook. Their names were Chestnut, Acorn, Walnut, Cashew, and Pecan. To do this, I cleaned out the dining room of our house, drove a half hour away to pick them up with all their gear, and committed to daily medications and weekly Petsmart adoption day hangouts with all of them. I knew of the phrase "it's like herding cats" from my time as a t-ball coach, but I finally understood where it came from, this was no small job. We had them for 10 adorable days where I got to invite friends over to sit with them, post videos and bios of each little personality, and just enjoy temporarily loving some mischievous baby cats. The work was worth all the cuteness, it was easier than I expected to give them to deserving joyful families, we could definitely do more.
So we moved into the dog fostering realm; Shadow was our first. He was a docile and smiley black and white Shepherd mutt and already had a forever home interview pending. Shadow was an easy guest, his only odd habit was perching on top of the couch to look out the picture window, but it was quirky and cute and harmless. I had nothing but good things and funny stories to say about him when I brought him to his new home. As he got to know his new family, an empty nest couple with one other lonely and young-ish dog, everything was perfect. He loved them, their dog was curious, and then ecstatic to have a friend, their house was gorgeous and Shadow was so excited for a massive back yard. By the end of the paperwork, the new family was crying, I was crying, Shadow was happy, this was exactly how I dreamed foster life would always be.
Then we got Steve.
I met Steve in the high-kill shelter of Minneapolis. I had never been there and thought I was ready to see the cold concrete warehouse where they keep the kennels. It ripped my heart out that as we walked past every dog - mostly pit bulls like Steve - they would either run to the gate in desperate hope that you were here for them, or they'd cower back farther in the corner because they had learned that people meant pain and they were still working through it. Smiley Steve was one of the happy ones who was so thrilled to be out of his kennel, so grateful for every kind touch and minute of attention, so energetic in the small workout space they provided. The foster agency asked on the spot if I was willing to take him, how could I say no?
I knew his energy was a lot more than what we're used to, but in our pet sitting experience, energy lasts a few hours, maybe the first day or two, then they find a routine and a calm. Steve never did. From days 1-16, he chewed everything he could get his mouth on, he sprinted through our tiny rambler and knocked over any furniture or humans in the way. He cried when he was in his kennel. He hated going outside alone, forcing someone to stand in the cold with him. The kids helped when they could, but they were tired, too. He was a LOT of work.
Two weeks after we got him, still at 100% energy, we went out of town. I asked my Facebook friends to watch him, especially looking for families that might be interested in adopting him. Two of them graciously volunteered to help, and I was optimistic either he'd be a great fit with one of them, or at least the break would give me the energy to come back with a renewed love for him again. The families were as exhausted as I was after only a week each, and the break wasn't enough.
Within a week of returning, I hated being in my own home. I cried when he wouldn't stop whatever mood he was in - energetic, sad, needy, whatever - and I was tired. He wasn't getting adoption hits, not even visits or inquiries. When I took him to adoption days at Petsmart, he scared people with his aggressive love and desperation. I didn't know how I could make it much longer. I emailed the foster dog coordinator and say I couldn't do it anymore and they responded that they could maybe get a trainer after 6 weeks, but I agreed to this, I didn't have to say yes at the shelter, it was my own fault.
So we kept trying. For Christmas, we got him a special rawhide treat and he loved it. Too much. It took his time, he'd bring it back to his kennel and just gnaw for 20 minute blocks - great! It wasn't until when I went to let him out and as I got close, he growled at me. That was a first. I noticed he was getting defensive of the rawhide to a point that it was a little scary, but I could usually wait for him to get bored and sneak it out while he was preoccupied with something else.
Then one day in January, as he was in his kennel with the rawhide, my son reached over to let him out for the afternoon and before he unlatched the door, Steve aggressively barked and bit at him, through the bars, but enough to break the skin. I had a hard line about dogs biting my kids, so I hit my breaking point. I called the foster group and said he needs to go now. If they did not pick him up, I would bring him back to the kill shelter. They were clearly upset with me and I didn't care anymore. Within 24 hours, they arranged for someone "more experienced" to take him. I was banned from being a foster again and I spent the next month sleeping, crying, and feeling like a complete failure and awful human being for giving up on Steve.
--
In retrospect, I agreed to Steve at a low of my cyclic depression. You know how when you're sad, that rather than just sit and feel it, you think of ways to make yourself happy? Puppies make me happy - let's be a foster and fix the sad! Winters aren't great in general for my mental health, and I had been hit by an avalanche of financial issues coming to a head, dealing with a recent crushing breakup, and choosing to withdraw from running for office because I knew I wasn't mentally strong enough for it.
The thing is, if I told the foster group "Hey, I just got this dog, but now i have cancer, can you re-home it?" I think they would have jumped through hoops to help. When it's depression, not only did I NOT announce it out loud to anyone - much less strangers I just agreed to help - but I don't feel confident that people would scramble to help you heal like they will with a tangible illness. At least, that's the story I told myself and how I had responded to people in the past. Depression sounded like a cop out and that's a stigma I want to break.
I want friends to start social media campaigns to help get each other better, for people to post selfies and invite friends to scary therapy sessions the way we show up for each other in chemo clinics, 5Ks where they give suicide survivors bright colored shirts and surround them by people who gave their money and time to loudly say they want to help. Make depression like cancer, put it in the spotlight, and maybe we'll come as far in prevention and early intervention in the next 20 years as the color pink has done for breast cancer in the 20 until now.
In my 20s, we left Zylo with a woman who ran a dog boarding business on some average in the country between the cities and Rochester and her beautiful little office and the sprawling sunrise views full of dogs became my retirement dream. My kid beat has the ball rolling by starting his own petsitting business at age 8, and I love having new friends here all the time.
So when the opportunity came to foster dogs in need who were living in high kill shelters, I knew I could do it. I had so much judgement for the people who put them in there and a lot of high and mighty feelings about rectifying what they did wrong. The Universe decided I needed to get kicked down a couple pegs.
--
So we moved into the dog fostering realm; Shadow was our first. He was a docile and smiley black and white Shepherd mutt and already had a forever home interview pending. Shadow was an easy guest, his only odd habit was perching on top of the couch to look out the picture window, but it was quirky and cute and harmless. I had nothing but good things and funny stories to say about him when I brought him to his new home. As he got to know his new family, an empty nest couple with one other lonely and young-ish dog, everything was perfect. He loved them, their dog was curious, and then ecstatic to have a friend, their house was gorgeous and Shadow was so excited for a massive back yard. By the end of the paperwork, the new family was crying, I was crying, Shadow was happy, this was exactly how I dreamed foster life would always be.
Then we got Steve.I met Steve in the high-kill shelter of Minneapolis. I had never been there and thought I was ready to see the cold concrete warehouse where they keep the kennels. It ripped my heart out that as we walked past every dog - mostly pit bulls like Steve - they would either run to the gate in desperate hope that you were here for them, or they'd cower back farther in the corner because they had learned that people meant pain and they were still working through it. Smiley Steve was one of the happy ones who was so thrilled to be out of his kennel, so grateful for every kind touch and minute of attention, so energetic in the small workout space they provided. The foster agency asked on the spot if I was willing to take him, how could I say no?
I knew his energy was a lot more than what we're used to, but in our pet sitting experience, energy lasts a few hours, maybe the first day or two, then they find a routine and a calm. Steve never did. From days 1-16, he chewed everything he could get his mouth on, he sprinted through our tiny rambler and knocked over any furniture or humans in the way. He cried when he was in his kennel. He hated going outside alone, forcing someone to stand in the cold with him. The kids helped when they could, but they were tired, too. He was a LOT of work.
Within a week of returning, I hated being in my own home. I cried when he wouldn't stop whatever mood he was in - energetic, sad, needy, whatever - and I was tired. He wasn't getting adoption hits, not even visits or inquiries. When I took him to adoption days at Petsmart, he scared people with his aggressive love and desperation. I didn't know how I could make it much longer. I emailed the foster dog coordinator and say I couldn't do it anymore and they responded that they could maybe get a trainer after 6 weeks, but I agreed to this, I didn't have to say yes at the shelter, it was my own fault.
So we kept trying. For Christmas, we got him a special rawhide treat and he loved it. Too much. It took his time, he'd bring it back to his kennel and just gnaw for 20 minute blocks - great! It wasn't until when I went to let him out and as I got close, he growled at me. That was a first. I noticed he was getting defensive of the rawhide to a point that it was a little scary, but I could usually wait for him to get bored and sneak it out while he was preoccupied with something else.
Then one day in January, as he was in his kennel with the rawhide, my son reached over to let him out for the afternoon and before he unlatched the door, Steve aggressively barked and bit at him, through the bars, but enough to break the skin. I had a hard line about dogs biting my kids, so I hit my breaking point. I called the foster group and said he needs to go now. If they did not pick him up, I would bring him back to the kill shelter. They were clearly upset with me and I didn't care anymore. Within 24 hours, they arranged for someone "more experienced" to take him. I was banned from being a foster again and I spent the next month sleeping, crying, and feeling like a complete failure and awful human being for giving up on Steve.
--
In retrospect, I agreed to Steve at a low of my cyclic depression. You know how when you're sad, that rather than just sit and feel it, you think of ways to make yourself happy? Puppies make me happy - let's be a foster and fix the sad! Winters aren't great in general for my mental health, and I had been hit by an avalanche of financial issues coming to a head, dealing with a recent crushing breakup, and choosing to withdraw from running for office because I knew I wasn't mentally strong enough for it.
The thing is, if I told the foster group "Hey, I just got this dog, but now i have cancer, can you re-home it?" I think they would have jumped through hoops to help. When it's depression, not only did I NOT announce it out loud to anyone - much less strangers I just agreed to help - but I don't feel confident that people would scramble to help you heal like they will with a tangible illness. At least, that's the story I told myself and how I had responded to people in the past. Depression sounded like a cop out and that's a stigma I want to break.
I want friends to start social media campaigns to help get each other better, for people to post selfies and invite friends to scary therapy sessions the way we show up for each other in chemo clinics, 5Ks where they give suicide survivors bright colored shirts and surround them by people who gave their money and time to loudly say they want to help. Make depression like cancer, put it in the spotlight, and maybe we'll come as far in prevention and early intervention in the next 20 years as the color pink has done for breast cancer in the 20 until now.
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