On Tuesday afternoon I placed my final foster dog (another Presa) in his new forever home. He had first come to me back in April as a 10 month old puppy, emaciated, skittish, mangy and sporting a botched ear cropping that had been stitched up with wire. And after recovering from all of that, he promptly tore both of his ACLs and went on a restricted activity plan for 8 weeks. He’ll probably wind up needing corrective surgery, but he’s with a family now who knows what to expect, having another dog with the same problem. While they won’t have to pay for the surgery should it become necessary, they’ll still be responsible for his post-op care, which is a lot in itself. But happily, they love and want him anyway.
I was reveling in my lack of foster dogs until yesterday afternoon, when I got an email about this little old fuzzball on death row at some shelter out in the boonies. He’s so ugly he’s cute:
I leave in ten minutes to pick him up. I have an embarrassingly large soft spot for seniors (but then, I do tend to gravitate toward the ones everyone else overlooks), and something about senior Pomeranians in particular makes me forget I’m a big dog person.
Thus we have another guest to welcome as part of the family until he finds one of his own. And if he doesn’t, well, he could do much worse when it comes to retirement homes.
nicoleantoinette said
It’s so wonderful that you do this.