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All Good Dogs Go to Heaven

rainbow bridge

For thirty days, I knew love. I knew the compassion only a foster can give, companionship only us fosters can share, the laughter of a child as I licked his face, and the little hop cats do when we surprise them. For thirty days, a tail wag earned praise, a happy smile returned a happy smile, and though for my stay I was sick, I was loved.

I filled my brief time with as much as I could. The shelter where I stayed didn't take care of me, so I had an upper respiratory infection. I was given medication, but I couldn't shake it. I went out to adoption events, I showed people that "pit bull" isn't synonymous with vicious, killer of a dog. In thirty days, I showed my rescue and adopters that a good dog is a good dog, no matter the breed.

But then I became sicker. Foster Mom rushed me to the vet not once but twice. I was given fluids, I was given medicine, but I was too weak to survive. I had been fighting off sickness for a long time, and my body was no match for parvo.

I could see the Bridge and the dogs before me, saddened by my foster's tears, but welcoming me to play with them. Foster Mom walked me into the vet's office for the last time, gave me a pat on the head, and told me she would see me later.

I wagged my tail for her one last time, a good bye to her that no, for now, we would not see each other. I would be with her always, riding beside her in the rescue car, silently in her heart as we entered shelters and she looked twice at dogs most people never see. She took them too. She still takes them for me.

Though I was very, very sick, I was grateful. She spoiled me with steak, she gave me a bath...okay, so that part I could do without, but as a bully, I was lucky.

For thirty days I was Popsicle. I was a good dog. For as long as my foster and rescue is able, I will live as a memory of chewing a rawhide bone, looking sad in a crate turned "jail", of being taken down by a six pound shih tzu, and being an ambassador for my kind.

A dog's life is brief, but when we know compassion--we can live as long as our human caretakers, ressurected in a laugh, in a smile, and most of all, in another dog whose life is spared.

When Foster Mom is away....

According to Foster Dad (who was just that guy who lets us in and out of the house, but was recently upgraded to Foster Dad after Foster Mom left for a week and we had to rely on him for food)...ahem, according to Foster Dad, we were MUCH better behaved the week Foster Mom was missing rather than when she returned. There was no jumping up, no acting "excited" and no in and out of the house. For one full week we were just a house of dogs.

Foster Mom said, "Oh, you're just jealous because they love me more."

Dogs said, "No comment." We dogs are smart.

We were very excited to see that Foster Mom and the Foster Kids were back from a week spent in some place called Florida. They apparently went to visit a 5 foot mouse, which sounds kinda tasty but also a little scary.

I was so happy to have Foster Mom back that I jumped up and down and wagged my tail so hard I nearly fell over. Once Foster Mom sat down, I got on the couch and turned over for a belly rub, once again wagging my tail in sheer joy that she had survived the giant mouse in the place called Florida. She rewarded us with some raw food and lots of attention and we were all very happy to have her home.

So when Foster Mom is away, we might be very well behaved, but it sure is boring! Hurray for Foster Mom!

Going to my new (foster) Home

Five days is an eternity to wait on Death Row, especially when the only crime you've commited is being born a terrier. When no one comes for you, your heart sinks to the bottom of your chest. You sit on a concrete floor and just wait.

In my case, I was kept behind "the line", a little divider that keeps the unadoptable dogs like me, the breeds and mixes barred by the pound, from being seen by the public.

The good thing is, rescues are allowed behind "the line". The bad thing is, very few rescues come searching for dogs like me. Luckily, there are rescues concerned about getting good dogs out of the pound and today was my lucky day.

At first I wasn't sure what was going on, but the moment I got out of the car and into the back yard, I knew I was going to be okay again.

I gotta go play with Monkey Bars again. He's a little nut, that one, but so much fun!

Popsicle