1. says

    But why do you people keep believing in “temporary foster arrangements”?
    That must be some religious doctrine followed by the cult of bearded men: Take in an animal, declare that it is a temporary arrangement, end up adopting the critter.
    Well, I can think of worse doctrines, keep going!

  2. throwaway, never proofreads, every post a gamble says

    My rescued staffie was a similar love story, but I feel guilty about the end of his life. Mainly because I wasn’t there for him due to a new girlfriend. I wasn’t loyal to him. She wasn’t loyal to me. I suppose it’s what I deserve in a grand karmic way. But I can never make amends with him and it breaks my heart.

    When I rescued him he stank to high heaven, was underweight, luckily unparasitic, must have been living off of trash, was constantly chained up. I got him a bath as soon as we got home, and let him up on the bed with me after he dried. He was instantly loyal and protective. If someone came up that I wasn’t familiar with, you’d hear a low growl and he’d be in between us. Not good, but the sentiment was awesome. I was his pack now.

    When he came down with the disease that killed him, a respiratory illness he caught from a dead bird or bird droppings, he’d come up and want to be reassured, coughing through his floppy lips. I’d pet him. But looking back I wish I’d shown him exuberant love rather than the way I think I half-assed it. The vet thought they got him cleared up, but the cough came back worse. The last I saw him I left him chained up to one of my grandmother’s columns on her house so that my mom could drive him to the vet for observation and treatment, since I had to be somewhere more important. There wasn’t really anywhere more important than by his side. I literally despise myself for it.

  3. throwaway, never proofreads, every post a gamble says

    Heart looks like him a bit. Except he had a lighter brindle patch over the same eye. I guess I never really mourned him until now. Sad.

  4. a_ray_in_dilbert_space says

    The highest we can aspire to is to be worthy of our dogs. It’s an ideal we can never achieve.

  5. says

    My little Chihuahua, Scooter, showed up on a rainy April afternoon. He ran into my ex’s house through the front door which had been left open by the kids. He jumped onto my lap, shook off the wet, and curled up under my hand to be petted. It was like he had been living there all along. Now obviously I took the time to look around the neighborhood right after I snuggled him up in a warm blanket, a little cutie pie like him would be searched for. Alas there were no search parties afoot so I went back home to think, and snuggle with the puppy. I would like to interject at this moment that much trouble could have been avoided if the owners had put a collar on him but that is another story I will get to. The ex came home and found me cuddled up with this little bundle of joy and she turned to instant mush. Scooter was christened in that millisecond or so it takes for a thought to become speech, and he liked the name, but that story comes later. Little Scooter spent the next few weeks being driven everywhere, meeting new people, and being smothered with affection by everybody. He accepted all of it as if it had always been so. Then came that terrible day, after weeks of looking for anyone searching for a dog, calling the pound daily to see if anyone had called about him, and filing a police report with not so much as a whisper of success in finding Scooter’s owners, we happened upon a rather irate lady and her bratty teenage daughter. She claimed to having put flyers out and filing police reports and checking the pound, all of which we knew were lies but she had photo proof so away went Scooter, or Butters as they called him. Now, to say a veil of depression fell over the house would be understatement of the highest order. The worst part was that Scooter/Butters was only 2 blocks away, I walked past his house everyday. It was a sadness that enveloped the ex, she really loved little Scooter. She couldn’t bring herself to even drive down that street anymore. Cut to around Christmas 2 years later, the ex is actually still thinking of Scooter, enough so that she actually buys a chew toy to take over to give to his owner. She returns to her house after said shopping trip and, strangely enough, Scooter/Butters’ owner is knocking on her door. The lady is getting kicked out of her house for reasons, none of the places she can get into will take pets, would you like to have Butters? Cue tears. The ex drives over to my house, drowning in happy tears, with Scooter. Cue more sappy/happy tears, cuddles, facelicks, you get the idea. 6 years later that little dog is still all the love in the world wrapped up into a pint sized burst of energy and if you want to make him happy just say “Ride”. He would dig a hole through that big door in TRON to get to the car. As for the previous owner, she never got him registered, or took him to the vet for any shots, the very worst kind of life for a little puppy. At least she had enough compassion to find a good home for him.

  6. Beatrice, an amateur cynic looking for a happy thought says

    Hello, Chris. Your new friend looks adorable.