Last week, I discussed my first foray into fostering dogs. This week, it gets even more doggie!
Shortly after Loween, our first foster dog, was adopted, my wife and I went on vacation to Guadeloupe. That’s an island in the Caribbean that's also technically France. Many bloggers would talk about that in great detail, but I’m not many bloggers, dammit. It turns out that that foreign adventure would only be a brief respite from the pressures of canine caring.
A day after we touched down back home in the USA, (and after almost having a heart attack due to the “error” that the customs machine reported on my green card) my wife showed me a photo of a dog. She had done the same thing with Loween, but this one was different. He was small, pudgy and confused looking. My wife explained that his name was Bongo, and that he needed a foster home urgently. The big thing that had almost stopped me from fostering Loween was his immense size. Bongo was a pomeranian, meaning that he was naturally tiny, so I couldn’t suspect trick photography this time around. Thinking of all the fun I’d had with Loween, I immediately agreed. Then my wife added, “Oh, he may now be entirely bald due to a medical condition.”
We got out of an Uber in Williamsburg and headed to a dog health food store (yes, a more hipster sentence has never been written.) This was where Bongo’s temporary home was. Inside, a tiny cute doggie waited patiently in a pen. He even had hair covering most of his body, not that I would have discriminated if he hadn’t. The exceptions were his tail and around his neck. Apparently, a thyroid condition had caused a total loss of hair. The last patches were the only clues that this had happened. Then the lady looking after the dog grabbed Bongo’s face, blew down his nose and shoved a finger down his throat. But this was an act of love. She explained to us that he needed medication for his thyroid, and this was the easiest way to administer it. In the coming weeks, we’d just opt to hide the pill in his food.
Next, we took Bongo for a walk around the block. This dog’s differences to Loween, apart from being roughly an eighth of that dog’s size, first became apparent. Loween would charge ahead of you and dart around in every direction. Bongo kept as close to you as possible, usually opting to trot just behind your legs. “Wow,” I thought. “Surely with a dog this relaxed, there will be no problems at all?”
“By the way, Bongo’s last foster parents had to give him up because of his constant whining.” This is what I heard just as we were signing Bongo’s fostering paperwork. But this dog hadn’t made a peep. Surely, the last foster parents were mad.
The first few days with the dog were as easy as can be. Loween had always insisted on two long walks a day. Bongo spent most of the day sleeping. We would take him out occasionally, but he seemed to get tired out by the time we reached the end of the block. Later, the vet told us that he didn’t actually need the meds that we had been giving to him. In fact, they were probably making him more energetic than he usually would be. So this sloth like dog was, if anything, even more lazy usually. It was becoming apparent that this dog was the perfect pet. And then…
My wife and I had been out for the evening. We got home. I opened the door and went into my apartment. But my wife was hesitating in the corridor, staring. “Oh no,” she said. I walked out to join her. Next to our apartment hung a sign that said something like, “To the owners of the constantly yapping dog, sort it out, or I will complain to the landlord.” The mystery as to why Bongo’s former foster parents couldn’t keep him became clear. While he was usually as quiet as a mouse when we were present, if we’d be away for more than a few minutes, he’d yap, yap, yap until we came home. And his yaps were loud.
“Looks like we had better take him back to the agency tomorrow,” I said. “I love this dog, but I need an apartment more.” Yes, callous, but as I’ve mentioned before, renting in NYC is a nightmare! But Bongo was doing something. He was running back and forth, hugging my wife and me. He wasn’t just happy to see us come home. He was overjoyed.
A thought struck me. Years ago, my boss in the UK had kept her unruly dog quiet by putting a collar on it that blew air in its face when it yelped. That seemed much better than abandoning him to who knows what. So we researched it, and all we could find were collars that administered brief electric shocks. We even consulted with the foster agency, and they conceded that a shock collar was better than giving Bongo up for no family. Shock collar it was.
As potentially cruel as it sounds, the shock collar was amazing! Bongo clearly knew what it was. And the barking stopped immediately. In the entire time that we had him, he probably only got shocked once, if that makes it any better.
Life settled down. We reasoned that we’d have Bongo for maybe years, as he was an older dog. People would be reluctant to adopt him because of that and his health issues.
A few weeks later, the dog shelter had an adoption event. Bongo went there, but his competition was stiff. He was the only older dog amongst a bunch of pomeranian puppies. We didn’t think that he was going anywhere. But when I got home that day, my wife was in tears. He didn’t get adopted, but the agency had decided to send him to a shelter in Florida. They reasoned that it was cruel to keep him going between places. My wife had said that we were happy to have him until he found a forever home, but they’d made their minds up.
There was a big hole in the next few days. Bongo had always been in the room with us, and often he was no more than a few feet away. We were constantly reminded of how he’d love to be picked up, cuddled and played with. The worst thing was coming home. Bongo had always been ecstatic to see us. But now, there was nothing.
What could we do? This dog was likely to be expensive. On top of his thyroid problems, he had bad teeth, he was nearly blind and who knows what else?
Eventually, my wife decided that we needed to adopt him. With a heavy heart, I agreed, as long as she could prove that we could afford him. As an immigrant, I knew that health bills in America could be crazy for people. What was it like for dogs?
The good news is that pet health insurance is actually incredibly affordable. It’s much more affordable than human health insurance. That says a lot about American standards.
So where are we now? We just contacted the agency. They know that we want Bongo back for good. We’re waiting to see if they can fly him up to us. Fingers crossed that he comes back! We miss that little guy.