Confessions of a First Time Foster

Friday was a wonderful day.

It turned out that all three of us (Papa and me and our friend in Chicago) had enough energy — for the first time since Angel arrived — to play our normal Friday night over-the-phone roleplaying game. It didn’t seem like we covered that much ground; an awful lot of time had to be spent in trying to remember where we’d left off and what so-and-so had actually said and so forth. But we’re back in the groove now!

Maybe. “The groove” involves staying up till 1:30am our time. And normally, sleeping in till at least 9:00 on Saturday. Angel had different ideas, and by 7:30 Papa was annoyed enough to reset the alarm and wake me up, too. Our schedule was cockeyed all day. To give you an idea, we went out for lunch and realized on the way home that it was 5:40 and we’d just had dinner. Poor Angel didn’t stand a chance of getting out consistently in time.

And more dog neglect occurred on Sunday, when our normal cadre of friends arrived for board gaming. We started that morning at 7:30 too, although we were considerably less groggy, having gone to bed in plenty of time for an early rising. It didn’t help that I wasn’t sure if we were on Angel’s weekday schedule, just starting an hour late, or if all the times should be advanced an hour. (Hmm, more research. First let’s get the weekday schedule down ironclad.) But I have to admit, mostly we just kept forgetting the time in the excitement of the game. Especially my excitement. I won both games!

The guy who usually wins is Paris’s “godfather.” He’s told us that he wants to take Paris if anything should happen to us. He adores her. But he couldn’t understand why we like Angel so much. Or why she should be so easily scared. I told him that if he’d lived two-and-a-half years in a crate, he’d be scared of the big wide world too. Later, I realized that I had to convert years. And the first year of a dog’s life takes you through to what? 16? in a human life. I think that means that each additional year of a bichon’s life counts as four human years; 17 is really old, and so is 80.

So I should be saying, what if you spent the first 20 years of your life in a tiny basement room, not allowed to leave for any reason. (We’ll say your parents talked to you and gave you language. But certainly, you never had friends or went to school or even went to the bathroom.) And then a lady came along and said she’d give you a better home. Only she put you in a tiny room in the garage, and let you run around in her yard for half an hour a day. Well, that would expose you to the sky for the first time, and trees, so it’s not insignificant. And she held you some, too, which was a novel experience. And that lasted for two years before she gave up. Now you’re 22 years old and you’ve never seen the inside of a house. You are not going to just pick up a normal life without blinking. You may eventually be like Paris, who was pampered from birth, but it will take you time and love to get there. (By my count, Paris is 27.) And you may never take the same things for granted that she does. That doesn’t make you less wonderful as a companion, in my book.

Yikes! By this count, Cognac is a staid 40 to 44. And Angel keeps trying to get him to play with her! With some success, I should note.