My Foster Dog Ate My Finger
I love dogs. This is not a secret to those who know me or even those who are just meeting me. I grew up with dogs, I’ve adopted dogs, babysat them, acted as a travelling companion for rescues, and had them tattooed on my body. So it was only a natural progression that I would foster them. Someone tagged me in a post on Facebook for a local rescue that was looking for fosters, and I quickly applied and was approved. There isn’t much in my house that isn’t already covered in dog hair, and my beloved furry piranha has ensured that no furniture has been left unscathed. Throw in a doggy door, fully fenced yard and some canine playmates and my home is the perfect respite for dogs in search of their forever home.
My first two fosters went off so well. Sure, there was a tug-of-war with my couch cushions, things got peed on, and nothing was left unhumped, but I was able to find loving homes for two gentle giants who wanted nothing more than a lap to fill. I had even turned down a puppy in favour of a dog that would be more difficult to place at the last foster event. Everyone wanted the puppies; my application offered up my home for the old, the broken and the tired. My only caveat was that any foster animals had to be friendly with the dogs already in my family. When I adopted my furry horde, I promised each of them that I would love them and keep them safe for the rest of their lives. As much as I…
