Previously… (The Foster Chronciles: ‘Nita, Week 5)
Would that we all thought like dogs.
I email the Charlotte woman—let’s call her Lainey—to see if she can meet on Saturday. She says she’ll get back to me in the afternoon. I don’t hear from her.
Every day after our 2.5 miles, I let ‘Nita and Redford run laps around the shed. It’s wicked cute, but I’m kind of unnerved by ‘Nita’s intensity. It seriously looks like she’s hunting Redford.
Still no word from Lainey. Oh, well.
I send photos of ‘Nita with a food donation we got to CCB, and whoever posts about it on their Facebook page fucks up her voice.
‘Nita doesn’t use capital letters unless it’s all-caps, she would never start a sentence with ‘us’ (though she sometimes uses text-speak, her grammar is excellent), and that status is NOT FUNNY.
I go to doggy manners orientation night. It is VERY helpful. Why the hell haven’t I done this sooner?
Already ‘Nita is learning her name, how to sit to say please, how to keep all four paws on the ground—she really is valedogtorian. I’m looking forward to the lesson on leash-walking, though. :/
Lainey emails and says sorry for the delay, she had some dental issues, and can we still get together? We plan to meet halfway between Durham and Charlotte.
I drive to a soggy golf course in High Point to meet with Lainey and her two sons, ages 5 and 7. Both boys are clad in camouflage galoshes and full of wiggles. Bonita snugs on all three of them as soon as they jump out of the car. The elder boy is more talkative and inquisitive; the littler guy does a lot of rolling around on the muddy greens.
7-year-old: Does she hunt?
Me: Not that I know of, but she sure is interested in squirrels, so I bet she’d hunt them.
7: That’s what I do! Hunt squirrels!
7: She had puppies?
Me: Yep, it sure seems that way.
7: Yeah, you can tell by her udders.
They seem awesome, definitely dog people. Lainey says she’s already put in an application and is ready for a home visit. The only hiccup is they don’t have a fenced yard. I don’t know how that’ll affect their chances.
‘Nita is good traveler but has her preferences.
When I change the station to something with more pep, she sings along.
It’s GORGEOUS out, but I’m just not ready to walk yet. ‘Nita’s outside sunbathing. I shoo Redford out the door and watch from the window. She’s ecstatic; he lets her wig out—jumping around, standing on his back, wiggling—and doesn’t do much. Eventually they do laps, and everything’s fine. Whew.
Tomorrow ‘Nita goes to get spayed.