I told everyone I was just fostering.
After losing my old girl, Penny, last year, I promised myself I wouldn’t go through that heartbreak again. No more dogs. No more goodbyes.
But when the shelter called about an overcrowding situation and said they had “two chunky little weirdos who needed short-term placement,” I figured I could handle it.
The moment I picked them up, I knew they were different.
They didn’t bounce around or bark. They didn’t even wag at first. Just sat huddled together, one practically sitting on top of the other like they shared the same nervous heartbeat. The tan one kept his head tilted like he was watching my every move. The fluffier one buried his nose in his brother’s chest and wouldn’t look up.
I thought it was just shelter shock.
But even back at my place, they never let go of each other. Ate together, slept together, and when I took one to the vet for his checkup, the other whined nonstop until he came back.
Then came the adoption event.
A couple came in and wanted the tan one. Said he was “cuter.” I was supposed to hand him over, no questions asked.
But I froze.
Because his brother had wrapped himself around him again—like he knew what was happening.
I opened my mouth to say something professional.
Instead, I heard myself say: “They’re a bonded pair. They can’t be separated.”
The shelter staff gave me a look.
Now I’ve got 24 hours to figure out how I’m going to explain this to my landlord.
It wasn’t easy breaking the news to my landlord, Mr. Carlson. He’s a grumpy older man with a strict “no pets” policy, but life has a funny way of softening people. When I showed him the two pups curled up together on my couch like a fuzzy yin-yang symbol, his scowl faltered.
“They’re temporary,” I assured him, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Just until I find them a forever home.”
Mr. Carlson sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Fine. But if they chew anything or make noise, you’re outta here.”
“Deal,” I said quickly, relieved he didn’t press further.
That night, as I lay awake listening to their rhythmic breathing, I realized I hadn’t named them yet. It felt too permanent, like naming would cement their place in my life—and I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. Still, calling them “the tan one” and “the fluffy one” felt impersonal. So, after some thought, I decided on Finn for the tan pup (because he seemed adventurous despite his cautious demeanor) and Bear for the fluffy one (because, well…he looked like a bear cub).
Over the next few weeks, Finn and Bear slowly started to come out of their shells. Finn began exploring every corner of my apartment, dragging socks and dish towels into his bed as trophies. Bear, on the other hand, preferred sticking close to me, resting his chin on my knee whenever I sat down. Their personalities were so distinct, yet they still clung to each other like magnets. Watching them made me laugh, cry, and sometimes feel guilty all at once.
Guilty because deep down, I knew I was lying to myself. These weren’t just foster dogs anymore—they were becoming part of my family.
One Saturday morning, I received an email from the shelter. A potential adopter had expressed interest in taking both Finn and Bear. My stomach dropped as I read the message. On paper, it sounded perfect: a retired couple with a big backyard and experience raising dogs. They’d fallen in love with the photos I’d sent and wanted to meet the boys.
Part of me felt relieved. This was what I’d signed up for—to give these pups a better chance at happiness. But another part—a bigger, louder part—felt panicked. What if they didn’t get along with the couple? What if they missed me?
When the day of the meeting arrived, I dressed Finn and Bear in matching bandanas (a ridiculous impulse buy I couldn’t resist) and drove them to the shelter. The couple, Margaret and Harold, greeted us warmly, kneeling to pet the boys right away. Finn sniffed Margaret’s hand curiously, while Bear stuck close to my leg, peeking out shyly.
“They’re adorable,” Margaret cooed. “And so sweet.”
Harold nodded, scratching Finn behind the ears. “Look at this guy—he’s fearless!”
As they interacted with the pups, I tried to stay objective. They were kind, clearly experienced, and genuinely smitten with Finn and Bear. Everything checked out.
But then something unexpected happened.
Finn suddenly bolted toward the door, barking loudly. Bear followed, whimpering anxiously. Before I could stop them, they squeezed under the gate leading to the waiting area. There, sitting patiently on a bench, was a scruffy terrier mix tied to a leash. His tail wagged furiously as Finn and Bear approached, sniffing and licking him enthusiastically.
“What’s going on?” Margaret asked, confused.
“That’s Rusty,” one of the shelter volunteers explained. “He’s been here for months. Most dogs don’t take to him because he’s so high-energy.”
I watched in amazement as Finn flopped onto his back, letting Rusty lick his belly. Bear stood nearby, wagging his tail tentatively before joining in the playful chaos. For the first time since I’d met them, the brothers seemed completely at ease—not just with each other, but with someone new.
Margaret and Harold exchanged a glance. “Well,” Margaret said softly, “it looks like they’ve already chosen.”
Chosen? I blinked, unsure what she meant.
“We can’t separate them now,” Harold added, gesturing to the trio. “Not after seeing this. If we take Finn and Bear, Rusty will be left behind. And honestly…” He smiled wistfully. “We’re not getting any younger. Three dogs might be too much for us.”
My heart swelled with gratitude—and relief. Without hesitation, I blurted out, “What if they stayed with me?”
Everyone turned to stare. Even Finn and Bear paused mid-play, looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes.
“I know it’s against my lease,” I admitted, “but I’ll figure it out. I promise.”
Margaret and Harold smiled knowingly. “Sometimes,” Margaret said, “you don’t choose your family. They choose you.”
Fast forward six months, and somehow, I managed to convince Mr. Carlson to officially allow Finn, Bear, and Rusty to stay. Turns out, Rusty had a knack for finding lost items—like Mr. Carlson’s glasses—and returning them. That sealed the deal.
Life is messier now, sure. There are muddy paw prints on the floor, torn-up shoes, and endless trips to the park. But it’s also fuller. Brighter. Louder. Every morning, I wake up to three furry faces staring at me, tails wagging like tiny windshield wipers. And every evening, we pile onto the couch together, a tangled heap of fur and love.
Losing Penny taught me that grief is inevitable when you open your heart to someone. But closing yourself off means missing out on the joy, too. Sometimes, the hardest choices lead to the greatest rewards.
So, if you’ve ever hesitated to take a leap of faith—whether it’s adopting a pet, starting a new chapter, or simply letting love in—remember this: Love isn’t about avoiding pain. It’s about embracing connection, even when it scares you.
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