Sweet as Honey

It was a Wednesday in May 2017, when we received our approved application to foster a sweet 14-week-old, mostly black, plump, German shepherd. There were four in total that needed foster homes, but as soon as I saw her, I knew it would be her that would join our family.

I didn't grow up with dogs. I had convinced myself I didn't even like dogs, though there wasn't much basis for that stance. Likely a coping strategy from childhood I'd come up with as a response when asked why we didn't have one. I had convinced myself I didn't need one, and closed that door.

However, since becoming a parent to two girls, I had latched onto these beautiful images of mama bears and their cubs on the internet, and something cracked open in my heart; an understanding that a mom is a mom is a mom. Suddenly all animals were beautiful and sentient.

Then there was Honey; this sweet image on my computer screen of a round, black, (could-be-cub at first glance) puppy that needed a foster home. I saved her image on my phone and found every opportunity to look at it. I zoomed in to inspect every inch of her. I showed the photo to everyone I came across.

"Is she peeing in that picture?"

"Yes. But doesn't she look just like a bear cub?"

I was in love.

My husband wasn't convinced. Unlike me, he'd grown up with dogs. He knew the work that you had to put into training them, especially a puppy.

"Get ready for our shit to get wrecked." He'd said. Still, it wasn't a no, so...

The day the approval came in, we all hopped into my husband's truck to get our girl. Two giddy kids in the back, nervously excited me in the front alongside hubby, reluctantly driving with a half grin as we made our way down the backroads to the animal sanctuary. I brought with me a stuffed elephant I'd purchased as a welcome gift. We arrived and signed the paperwork. Finally she was (temporarily) ours to foster with the hope that we could adopt her.

I held onto my little cub-pup as we drove down the winding roads home. Her oversized ears flopped in the wind, while her sandy coloured paws rested on my arm. She clawed her way across the centre console, landing in my husband's lap as we turned into town. He glanced at me and smiled. Honey may not have known her name just then, but she had found her home.

We were the third foster home for Honey, as the previous two could not give her the attention she required. You could tell right away that she hadn't been held enough, as it was difficult to form a bond with her. She wanted her space, preferring to sit just out of arms-reach. I spent the first three nights sleeping on the couch beside the crate, expecting to hear whimpers or barks, to feel needed, yet she remained silent.

I panicked and googled everything in those early months, since I had no previous experience owning a dog. I asked my husband countless questions that usually ended in me yelling, "didn't you have dogs growing up?!" To which he responded, "I was a KID! My PARENTS did everything!"

My husband was right about one thing, our "shit" got wrecked. She chewed the walls, the furniture, the kid's toys, and the dish towels. She dug holes in the yard. But she was so damn sweet and fluffy, we didn't even care. She grew, and quickly. Six months went by in a flash. We got the call that she would need to be spayed before she could be adopted. The appointment was set, and the rescue centre arranged a driver to take her for the surgery. Once spayed, we could apply to adopt her. I was to meet this man in a parking lot at the crack of dawn the next morning.

The sky was a creamy orange the next morning as I stifled my nerves and pulled into the meeting space. I spotted the van and greeted the man, handed him her leash and as he opened the back door, I spotted a few other dogs also heading for surgery.

"Wait!" I yelled to the man.

He turned back and I handed him the stuffed elephant from her first day with us.

"For the ride. So she has some comfort."

He snickered, looked at the now-dirty favourite toy of Honey's, glanced into the van full of dogs, then without another word shut the door and off they went. I watched the van turn onto the on-ramp and towards the highway, out of sight. Tears streamed down my cheeks in a way I hadn’t recalled since my children were dropped off at daycare for their first time. That primal surge cracked my heart open once more and reverberated deep in my soul.

A mom is a mom is a mom.