Fostering Frank

Time may or may not heal wounds, but it sure does help ease pain.



I am finally ready to talk about Frankie again. It was too difficult for awhile there- it made me really sad to see photos of him, talk about him, or even think about him.



But here we are about a month later.



At the end of January I received a phone call regarding a special dog in need of a foster home. My response was to jump in the car and rush to the shelter 45 minutes away so I could meet the little fella.

Frankie met me with gusto. The compact nine month old little Pit Bull Terrier was thrilled to spend time with me- injured hip and all. I was told that he was to have FHO surgery to repair his hip, and that we would be fostering him for rehab. I was thrilled to be able to help.



Frank was a love. His favorite thing to do was snuggle. I can think of few things I would like to do more than snuggle with a dog, so we got along swimmingly. His rehab was intense- ice therapy, wet heat therapy, walking therapy, and hands-on physical therapy. Sit to stand therapy. Hill therapy. It required a lot of time, but I was happy to help. I really felt like I was doing something special. I would take Frank outside and we would do our therapy. Then we would come inside and do our indoor therapy. This was followed by crating the little fella and then taking our three dogs out for their walk.



Crating the little fella. This was the difficult part. Frank was to be on complete cage rest. This was nearly impossible. Take an energetic puppy, who is also an active, strong breed, and put the little guy in a crate for the better portion of a day...you can guess how that went. Yikes. Frank did not protest quietly. There were no staged peaceful sit-ins from this guy. There was screaming, screeching, and just a general sense of complete chagrin. He wouldn't- couldn't- take it. My heart broke for him. My heart broke for Tucker, Bpui, Sherman, Agatha and Johnny-No-Home, the resident furballs in our home. More than once I found our dogs and cats hiding somewhere in our home, dander flying. There was moaning, groaning, and howling from all parties. None of the fur babies I share my life with were terribly fond of the loud dog who joined our brood.
So I began to take little Frank out of his crate for supervised free time to keep him at peace. That helped during the day, but lordy, nights....nights were a whole different story. The Frankfurter could not be consoled. I ended up dragging out a futon mattress and sleeping on the living room floor with him. It was the only way he would sleep. There were many sleepless nights, getting up to avoid accidents, getting up to clean up accidents, getting up to soothe a crying puppy. I went to work a walking zombie, concerned mostly by the fact that I had no idea how to ease his anxiety. There were also tiffs with our other dogs. No one was happy. No one was at ease.

I clicker trained, played music, put on a dap collar. And yet.

Nothing seemed to help.



After two and a half weeks, I drove back to the shelter my heart heavy. The foster was supposed to be for six weeks, and I had only helped Frank through two and a half. I stood
in the middle of the shelter foyer, sobbing. The shelter staff told me over and over that I did more than any other foster mamma would have. That it wasn't a failure on my part. That he needed to be in a home with no other animals.

But there was no consoling me. I felt like I was abandoning him.
It was a rough couple of days thereafter.

Later that week, I received a phone call from the shelter, telling me that Frankie was adopted two days after I brought him back. He was brought home by a young couple who have no other pets, and have no plans to get any others.

Ah.

Sigh.

Smile.

Cry.


I recently received a Frankie update. His family is madly in love with him, and his spirit and hip are doing well.


I could bust.


Until next time, when we welcome another four-legged, furry creature who needs us.