The vocabulary of a foster dog parent

My husband and I have been a foster family for a coonhound and beagle rescue on and off for a couple of years. We’ve had six dogs come through our home in those years. Some stay for a few weeks. Some stay for a few months.

We’ve learned so much about our dogs and ourselves by adding a foster to our family. We stopped volunteering for a few months while Wilbur recovered from his autoimmune disease, but then I was diagnosed with ITP earlier this year. We had a couple of very scary months where we were reeling with information. The stress made me feel worse. I knew it was time for another break, because the first lesson of fostering kept returning to my mind.

If you’re stressed, they’re stressed! They’re already having a tough time getting shuffled around, moving out of a shelter or former home, and now they’re meeting new dogs outside of their territory. They can’t speak for themselves. They can’t tell you how lonely and afraid and sad they are to be displaced. When I come home and cry or sleep or vent, I’m not helping them settle in to what I hope would be a calm home. My dogs know me. They give coonhound hugs and cattle dog snuggles when I’m upset. Foster dogs don’t know me yet.

Logistics are important. We have a strict order of who is fed when, where, and in what order. Duey, our current foster, can’t use the dog door. He’s too old and too small for the 90lb-sized dog door. He also can’t handle the steps very well. We have to make sure our dogs don’t bowl him over, eat his food, or pick a fight with him. They’d probably lose to the old man, but I don’t want to try.

A little love makes all the difference. Sit on the floor. Offer a special treat. Take them for a walk. I thought our senior foster beagle would not feel up to walking. Not true. He brightened up and kept up with the young ones. Tonight he continually nudged my hand so I’d scratch his back. He never begs for attention. He usually sleeps. But tonight he wanted me. If I’ve had a rough day, it can feel overwhelming to come home and go through the routine and logistics of getting everyone fed and outside, medicated and bathed, walked and loved. But our foster dogs never fail to show gratitude in their own ways, making up for all the details that go into their care.

Some people ask why we choose to foster, why our rescue doesn’t kennel the dogs until adoption. I might be selfish, but fostering has made me a more patient, observant human being. I have to communicate every day with a family member who can’t form words, doesn’t see well, and barely gets up and down the steps. He’s teaching me patient love just as much as I’m teaching him good house manners. He will know my love now so he can better know someone else’s later.

Have questions about fostering? Are you interested in being a foster dog parent? Reach out to me or look up a rescue near you. Many of them would be happy to talk to you about volunteering.

orison [a prayer]

For a long time now, I’ve felt called to intercession in all its many forms. It’s hard for me to see a need and not try to meet it. If my husband would let me, I’d probably have 15 dogs in a big dog lover’s sanctuary.

Before we got Wilbur in the snowy January of 2014, I was not convinced we needed a dog. There was so much freedom without a dog. We already had a cat and a fish aquarium. A dog?! That’s a zoo. All this despite my passion for the canine kind.

Our hunter friend let me get my puppy fix with his litter of Treeing Walker Coonhound puppies, but the husband did the unthinkable. He–with his unmistakably more prominent parental instincts–heard those little puppy cries and picked one up. The one with the basset ears. The one who snuggled up under his neck.

That was Wilbur. Our friend let us take him home for “free” (dogs are never 100% free, we’d find out later). And he terrorized our house, our cat, our sleep. Baseboards, beds, and several pairs of sandals bit the dust. I wore sweatshirts in the summer to keep his claws and teeth from breaking my skin. I don’t know how many times I called him my little monster.

Our vet loved him. Swooned over his baby hound howl. And then she told us his leg was not growing straight. That was around $500 in vet bills. Okay, dog. You’ve paid for yourself now.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Little Wilbur grew up and quickly became the best dog ever. Nighttime guard dog, never had an accident, slept in our bed like a little (80lb) human. We fell in love with the coonhound breed and started working with a rescue to foster other TWC’s.

Here’s my mini ad for fostering: it really is a rewarding experience. To see them fall asleep in your house for the first time, knowing that they feel safe–that is what it’s about. Giving them attention and play and training they’ve possibly never had–that’s the reason we do it. We aren’t dog experts by any means, but we’ve been able to help hounds and not-a- hounds alike find forever homes since we started fostering. I, in particular, feel I have a gift for this.

Our first foster dog, Boscoe, was all kinds of unhealthy. He had heartworms, Lyme disease, cancer, and was recovering from two surgeries when he arrived. I slept on the floor with him a few nights to make sure he didn’t stop breathing. He was an old man, and I was almost his foster failure.

We didn’t know that Boscoe’s infant-like needs would be preparation for our own special needs dog in the making. Wilbur started battling strange symptoms in January 2015. His face would swell and he had trouble opening his jaw. We tried aspirin, allergy meds, cold compresses, and antibiotics. We had to switch vets when ours refused to acknowledge that his issue was more than just “eye trauma.” Our new vet treated him with steroids twice with some relief until the steroids were stopped. She finally referred us to an internist (a specialist) at Purdue and quoted us $1200-$1500 for the tests likely to be run for these kinds of symptoms.

Husband was flying that day, so I took Wilbur home from the vet. I sat on the floor and looked at his swollen face and cried. I thought about those people who had said, “Why would you spend that much money on a dog? Put it down.” I couldn’t believe I was conflicted about spending that much money on Wilbur’s health. I knew we just needed to get him well. And in a last ditch effort, I did some research.

I stumbled upon a diagnosis that hasn’t been studied or even seen much in coonhounds. Masticatory Muscle Myositis is often seen in retrievers, shepherds, and dobermans. I called the vet the next day and asked if we could do the necessary blood work. We went in right away and received a diagnosis a week later. I was right–MMM.

The vet called me clever. I just called it intercession.

And exhaustion. And fear. And love.

But maybe that’s just the formula for intercession.

Love you, sweet Wilbur boy.