The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 4

Day 1

Aside from seven poops of an undesirable viscosity, Buffy seems to suffer no ill effects from

She and I go to an adoption event in the afternoon. When my mom and I speak about it beforehand, she says, “Are you hoping she will get adopted or won’t get adopted?”

“Both,” I tell her.

Normally, these shindigs are held in front of pet supply stores to capitalize on foot traffic, but today’s is at a kennel/pet resort. The people who stop by are definitely interested in getting a dog, but those people are very few. Like, four. For now, Buffy doesn’t get adopted. I’m OK with that.

Day 2

Buffy keeps vaulting the fence to go after that meddlesome mini-poodle. This last time, she doesn’t come directly back when I call her. I fuss for a minute, and she comes back. I don’t like the direction this is going.

Day 3

Lots of wrestling. Redford is always the Monkey in the Middle.

Because of her safe-breaking skills, I take up locking Buffy in her kennel and then closing the spare bedroom door when I leave the house.

Day 4

I forget part 2 of the process in the morning. Guess who spends the whole day with full run of the house and greets me at the door when I get home from work.

Later, I peer at my bedspread, right up by all the decorative kindling pillows. None of my dogs have ever been allowed in my bed, including Buffy. Apparently, when the cat’s away, the foster dog will make herself very comfy, or so says the oval indentation filled with grey fur I find there.

While on the phone with my sister, I flop into the green chair with the mismatched pillow. Buffy stands between my feet for a moment, facing me, then reaches up with her front legs* and wraps them around my waist. After I hang up, we just stay there, hugging each other, for another ten minutes.

*When I explained Violet’s injury to the vet the first time, I said the left leg. She said, “Left hind leg?” I thought, “Of course. I said her leg, not her arm.” I always want to call my dogs’ front legs their arms.

Day 5

I latch the side door of the crate from which Buffy keeps escaping and shove the crate between the sofa and the closet door.

The daily grammar warm-up I give my Honors classes happens to be about dogs, and I find myself telling the students all the Buffy stories. Talk about student engagement. I let them know she’s up for adoption. Several kids express interest, and I tell them to get a note from their parents if they want to meet her. At the end of fourth period, one of my students says, “Ms. Scott, what if two kids brought in notes from their parents at the same time? Who would get her?” I let her know that the foster organization makes the adoption decisions. (The next day, she tells me her parents said no.)

Back at the homestead, while I’m effusing about what a good dog Buffy is to my sixth graders,

At least she’s closed in the bedroom.

I ask Facebook how I determine if my dog is a superhero. One friend suggests taking off her glasses. Another asks if she disappears inexplicably when there’s trouble only to reappear when the situation has been handled. A third said, “Cape. Duh.” Alas, none of these things helps, but she does eat glass, leap high fences in a single bound, and escape from impossible traps. She’s not quite faster than a speeding bullet, but close, especially when she takes off after the mini-poodle.

Day 6

I put her in

which is larger but has locking latches. While I’m at work,

Also, I DID NOT RAISE THAT BLIND. I mean, it’s the kind you can push up on and it’ll stay, but still. Still.

I realize, if I made a movie, I could title it The Crate Escape. Har har.

Day 7

On the neighborhood loop, a dude shouts, “Hey, you wanna breed the little one?”

I reply, “I don’t believe in breeding dogs.”

He says, “I believe in making money,” and gives his buddy a high-five.

I want to scream, “YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.”

The mini-poodle follows us the whole way.