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.

I know I’ve left things out of my blog, like how Angel now can go both ways on stairs and jump up and down off the couch. Sometime in the past day or so, Cognac seems to have totally given up trying for sex, much to my relief. And his, no doubt. Plus the other night Angel ate basically all of her dinner from Papa’s hand for the first time. (OTOH, when she was tied to his belt for half an hour while he worked on the computer, she spent the whole time running restlessly at the full extent of her leash — she still hasn’t gotten over her fear of him.) Very early on Angel found her voice — she and Cognac both arrived mute from shock. Now whenever she hears a noise that worries her (and very few don’t), she leads the pack in belling out the alarm. Recently Papa groomed Angel for the first time — probably the first simple combing (as opposed to professional shave) she’s ever been given. Yesterday morning she picked up a toy. (And while I’m mentioning milestones, this morning she gave my nose a little lick.)

These are all such little, seemingly unimportant details, but so satisfying to watch. I’m very glad that we were there for Cognac when he needed us, and that we have been able to teach him some basic obedience and help figure out what’s going on with him and what he needs. What I’m trying to say is that fostering Cognac has indeed been satisfying. But with Angel, every day has seen an unfolding of her spirit. She’s coming out of her caged self before our very eyes. And we know that we’re the ones who are giving her the liberty and security and affection that are the roots of her blossoming. I haven’t been this happy with a decision since we decided to bring Paris into our family. Even if having three dogs at once has utterly exhausted us!

I must fess up that it’s highly unlikely that you’ll be as interested in Angel doing her business as I have to be.

Yesterday morning I saw Angel start to pee on the carpet and said “no”. But it took me probably three minutes before I could get her outside (I’d tell you why, but it would be even more TMI than the rest of this post), and I don’t know if any learning took place. It has come home to me that I’ve never used this technique before where we tie her leash to a belt; when we housetrained Paris, we kept her in the kitchen till we thought she knew what she was supposed to do. (I have to keep reminding myself to get Angel into the kitchen so she has a chance to drink.)

And only two hours later, Angel had another accident. And I wasn’t paying attention (my bad!), so I don’t know where in the office she had it. Not on the carpet, at any rate. But two hours — arrggh! The day before, she had perfect performance with going out every four hours. I so do not want to housetrain a dog with a UTI!!!!!

I’m focused on yesterday’s mistakes because I made another one this morning. After getting up at 6am to help Papa walk the dogs and feed them their breakfast, I took a nap on the couch. And I didn’t crate Angel. Ooops! So I was very grateful when she woke me up at 9:30 by being very agitated. She still had a dry diaper!

Okay, I can tell you’re not remotely as thrilled as I was. So how about I tell you that Angel walked on her back legs this morning. Is that better? Paris’s been able to do that trick for some time, and Cognac has spent the last several months trying to copy her, with very little success. Angel just up and did it! (Next time I’ll make sure I have the camera handy.)

P.S.: It’s now 12:45, and we just came in after a not-at-all thrilling walk in the rain. Angel squatted a few times, but I didn’t think she was actually producing anything. Sure enough, no sooner do we get inside, than she squats over the carpet. I managed to interrupt her, but idiotically didn’t take her back out. I need training!