Men and Dogs

In my foster group there are about 15-20ish dog fosters and, I don’t know, probably some number of cat fosters. Out of all of these wonderful fosters, not a single one is a man. There is one husband who is supportive and very involved but that’s it. I don’t know why this is. What I do know is that in most cases…. a dog may be man’s best friends but men are the enemy of dog fostering.

“I’ll have to talk to my husband but I really want to foster the new Lab mix.”
“I really want to, but my husband said if I bring home another dog he’s leaving.”
“I love her but she peed on the bed. My husband says she can’t stay here anymore.”
“He says he hates having all these animals in the house but I caught him cuddling and baby talking yesterday.”
“My boyfriend says he won’t move in if I have more than three dogs.”

Perhaps men are just the scapegoats or the voice of reason when we can’t think strait. Those longing puppy dog eyes can make us do crazy things. If men are the sane ones who can resist a dog that is clearly dying when it isn’t in your lap perhaps it makes sense that they don’t foster. Fostering is insane. The dogs are completely unpredictable in most cases. They may come in with zero training and without the ability to differentiate carpet from grass. They may come in with strange objects in their stomachs that really need to be vomited on to your sofa. Or they may be ill. I made the mistake of letting a 9 week old puppy sleep in the bed with me. I rolled over into a freshly vomited pile of live roundworms. That was about 18 dogs ago.
Maybe the men have a point. Or maybe they are heartless bastards who can watch a Sarah McLachlan commercial without bursting into tears. We may never know.

How can you say no?

How can you say no?

I have Rocko. He is my dog. Permanently. (Well… he might not be my dog anymore. He and my boyfriend have become quite attached. Especially since he moved in.) I am fostering Tori. She has no signs of getting adopted. Ever. This makes two dogs. I have been brought home a couple third dogs–small ones– to test my limits with the boyfriend. They have not been disasters. I wouldn’t call them successful, though. He would prefer I didn’t foster at all. I suppose I should take it as a sign of love that he moved in with me knowing I am going to bring strange dogs home again and again.

So the battle continues. We women desperately trying to help those in need and men ruining everything ever.

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