In my senior year of college, I fostered a dog for the first time. Due to an unfortunate mixup in housing registration and other unforeseen circumstances, I lived alone in a three bedroom apartment close to campus. Living alone was, quite obviously, lonely. I wanted a companion, and since I couldn’t find one on two legs I started looking for ones on four. I wasn’t sure that adopting a dog was a smart decision because I had no idea where life would take me after graduation, so I sent an application to a local animal rescue to become a foster volunteer.
Not long after that, I picked up a skinny, seemingly timid puppy named Brownie. She was found on the streets of Alabama as a stray just a few days before. I had no idea what kind of human interaction she’d had before meeting me, if any at all.
“She’s shy,” a volunteer said, handing me her leash. “It may take time for her to warm up to you.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got nothing but time.”
Brownie needed no time at all. She sat in my lap the entire drive home. When we got back to the apartment, I tried to introduce her to all her new toys and fuzzy blankets. She wasn’t interested in anything except laying on top of me.
I had met lap dogs before. I had met snuggly dogs before. I had never met a dog as snuggle-hungry as Brownie. She lived and breathed my lap. Oftentimes I would have to prop my laptop on top of her because she refused to let me do any schoolwork in peace.
I watched her experience snow for the first time. Every night, we walked around my small college town to look at Christmas lights. When we got too cold, we’d run back home and snuggle on the couch. Our favorite show was “How I Met Your Mother.”
I loved her. I loved her more than I loved the air in my lungs. I lived and breathed Brownie. Then, one day, she got an adoption application. A retired couple was looking for a sweet, well-mannered companion. Brownie and I met them and their grandchildren at a park. They fell in love with her. Who wouldn’t? A week later, I said goodbye.
I cried for days. I was inconsolable. There was just no way anyone could have as strong a bond with Brownie as me. We did everything together, but we’d never see each other again. What kind of cruel game did I just willingly play?
A few weeks later, right before Christmas, I got an email from the man who adopted Brownie. He wrote that they had renamed her Molly, and she was settling in well. He attached pictures of their sweet little girl running around her new yard, sleeping on the couch, and cuddling up with their grandchildren. She was no longer the skinny, timid puppy I met two months prior. She was happy, healthy, and confident.
That’s when I knew I was going to foster again. I wanted to be part of another dog’s journey, from being a stray to taking up too much space on the couch. I wanted to watch my time, energy, and love directly lead to a happy ending for another dog.
After Brownie, I fostered Cinnamon, Piper Jane, June, Rex, and, most recently, Betty Boop. Each dog I brought home taught me a new lesson about myself. I hope to dive deeper into these incredible stories, and who knows, I may end up with my seventh foster dog by the time I’m done.
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