I have had to remain a little quiet on the details of my mystery border collie (whom I don’t really think is a border collie, but no matter) because he could not be officially adopted until after his neuter date. I don’t like to count chickens until they hatch.
The foster dog came to us as a stray. He had been living in the streets for a while and did not have luck finding a home in the shelter. The shelter was incredibly overwhelmed with dogs and could only give each dog so much attention with the resources they had. Luckily, they have connected with out of state rescue groups that transport dogs and place them in foster homes so that the dogs can enjoy living with people in a home instead of a shelter.
When our dog came to us he was scared. He was lethargic and exhausted after being transported in a van with about 20 other dogs on a 16 hour trip. The poor guy looked rough. He has a double coat and hadn’t been brushed since he had started blowing coat probably months ago. He was scrappy looking to say the least.
When we got him home I sat on the front steps with the dog next to me. I scratched his ears and couldn’t help but look to the road where Waffles had died. I started tearing up and told the dog (if you don’t talk to your dog you’re missing out on some great conversations), “I’m sorry, I’m happy to have you here. It’s just been a rough few weeks.” I kid you not, the dog looked into my eyes, then laid his head on my shoulder, and let out a big dog sigh. I knew that he was communicating “me too.” I said, “maybe this will work out, it’s okay that we are both bouncing back from something hard.”
In that moment that foster dog became, “Ricochet,” and we are going to be great together.
The Heralding Hound 