I said to everyone that I was only fostering.
Losing my old girl, Penny, last year made me vow I wouldn’t experience that anguish again. No more canines. No more farewells.
When the shelter phoned about an overcrowding problem and claimed they had “two chunky little weirdos who needed short-term placement,” I thought I could manage.
From the time I picked them up, I knew they were unique.
They didn’t bark or hop about. At first, they didn’t even wag. Just sat squeezed together, one almost sitting on top of the other as if they shared the same anxious heartbeat. The tan one maintained his head tilted as though monitoring my every action. The fluffier one refused to look up and buried his nose in his brother’s chest.
I assumed it was only shelter shock.
But even back at my house, they never let go of one another. Ate together, slept together, and when I brought one to the vet for his exam, the other whined continuously until he came back.
The adoption event followed.
A pair arrived wanting the tan one. Claimed he was “cuter.” No questions asked, I was meant to turn him over.
I just stood still.
Because his brother had once more thrown himself about him, like though he knew what was going on.
I opened my mouth to speak something professional.
Rather, I found myself saying, “They are a linked pair. They cannot be apart.
The shelter personnel looked at me.
I have 24 hours left to decide how to tell my landlord this.
Telling my landlord, Mr. Carlson, the news was not simple. Though life has a humorous way of softening individuals, he is a grouchy elderly man with a rigorous “no pets” policy. His frown faded when I presented him the two puppies snuggled up together on my couch like a fuzzy yin-yang emblem.
“They’re only for now,” I told him, fingers crossed behind my back. “Just until I locate their eternal residence.”
Mr. Carlson shook his head and sighed heavily. Okay. But should they make noise or chew anything, you’re gone.
“Deal,” I responded fast, grateful he didn’t push more.
Lying awake that night hearing their steady breathing, I came to understand I had not yet named them. It felt too permanent, as if naming would confirm their position in my life and I was not ready for such commitment. Still, referring to them as “the tan one” and “the fluffy one” seemed cold. After some consideration, I chose Finn for the tan puppy (he appeared adventurous despite his reserved attitude) and Bear for the fluffy one (well…he resembled a bear cub).
Finn and Bear gradually began to emerge from their shells during the next several weeks. Finn started rummaging through every nook and cranny of my flat, pulling dish towels and socks into his bed like trophies. Conversely, Bear liked to stay near me and would place his chin on my knee every time I sat down. Though their personalities were very different, they clung to one another like magnets. Seeing them all at once made me laugh, cry, and occasionally feel guilty.
Guilty because, deep down, I knew I was deceiving myself. These weren’t only foster dogs anymore; they were starting to join my family.
On a Saturday morning, the shelter emailed me. A possible adopter has shown interest in adopting both Finn and Bear. Reading the note made my stomach sink. On paper, it sounded ideal: a retired couple with experience raising dogs and a large property. They had grown to adore the images I had supplied and wished to see the boys.
Some of me was glad. This was what I had agreed to—to provide these puppies a better shot at happiness. But another part—a bigger, louder one—felt panicked. What if the couple and they didn’t get along? What if they forgot about me?
On the day of the appointment, I drove Finn and Bear to the shelter dressed in identical bandanas—a silly impulse purchase I couldn’t resist. Margaret and Harold, the couple, welcomed us kindly and immediately knelt to stroke the boys. Finn sniffed Margaret’s hand inquisitively; Bear stayed near my leg, nervously peering out.
Margaret cooed, “They’re lovely.” “So lovely too.”
Scratching Finn behind the ears, Harold nodded. “Look at this guy—he’s fearless!”
I attempted to remain neutral as they engaged with the puppies. They were nice, obviously seasoned, and really in love with Finn and Bear. All was in order.
But then something unanticipated took place.
Finn quickly ran toward the door, barking loudly. Bear trailed, whining nervously. They slipped beneath the barrier to the waiting area before I could stop them. Sitting patiently on a seat there was a dirty terrier mix connected to a leash. As Finn and Bear came close, his tail wagged madly and he licked and sniffed them fervently.
What is happening? Margaret inquired, perplexed.
“One of the shelter volunteers said, “That’s Rusty.” He has been here for some months. Most dogs don’t like him since he is so high-energy.
Finn flopped onto his back and allowed Rusty lick his stomach, which I found incredible. Standing close by, Bear wagged his tail cautiously before participating in the fun mayhem. The boys appeared totally at ease for the first time since I met them—not only with one other but also with someone unfamiliar.
Margaret and Harold traded looks. “It seems they have already picked, then,” Margaret remarked gently.
Selected? I blinked, not knowing what she meant.
Harold pointed at the three and said, “We can’t separate them now.” Not after witnessing this. Rusty will be left behind if we take Bear and Finn. To be honest… He grinned sadly. Time is not on our side. Three dogs could be too much for us.
I felt grateful and relieved in my heart. I said without thinking, “What if they stayed with me?”
Everyone looked up. Even Finn and Bear stopped playing to gaze up at me with open, eager eyes.
“I know it’s against my lease,” I said, “but I’ll work it out.” I will.
Margaret and Harold grinned knowingly. Sometimes, Margaret continued, you don’t select your family. Sometimes, Margaret said, you don’t choose your family. They select you.
Fast forward six months, and somehow, I got Mr. Carlson to formally let Finn, Bear, and Rusty remain. Rusty turned out to have a talent for locating and returning lost things including Mr. Carlson’s glasses. That clinched the agreement.
Sure, life is messier now. The floor is covered with muddy paw prints, shredded shoes, and never-ending park visits. But it is also more complete. More vivid. More vocal. Every morning, three furry faces looking at me, tails wagging like little windshield wipers, greet me. Every night, we also stack onto the couch together, a tangle of love and fur.
Losing Penny showed me that opening your heart to someone causes unavoidable sorrow. But isolating oneself can means missing the happiness as well. At times, the most difficult decisions bring the most benefits.
Therefore, if you have ever been reluctant to take a leap of faith—whether it be adopting a pet, beginning a new chapter, or just let love in—remember this: Love is not about evading suffering. It’s about welcoming relationship even when it terrifies you.
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