Two years since I met foster puppy Joey
Tomorrow marks two years since we brought home the sickest puppy we ever fostered. He was the most worrying. He was the tiniest. He was also my favorite. (I tell myself I ought not to have favorites—each dog we had the privilege of caring for in 2022 changed me in some meaningful way—but I can’t help it. Joey was.)
The fragile baby dog I carried out of the SPCA and into my heart is nearly a full adult now. He lives in Florida still; he shares his big yard with a dog sibling. His parents love him. You would not know, if you saw him on the street, that just under two years ago Sean asked me if this puppy would make it and I didn’t know how to answer.
I miss Joey terribly, almost every day. Not who he is now, necessarily—I realize I don’t know the details of his current grown-up self—but who he was 730 days ago. Who he became in the month I shared with him. Who I got to be as his protector.
Two years ago we went to the beach on a clear Saturday morning. I knew the shelter had new puppies, but the staff weren’t sure they needed me to step in. So Sean and I walked along the shore and sipped coffee at our go-to cafe a block from the ocean and took a few selfies I smile looking back on. As we sat beneath the sun, my phone vibrated with a message from the foster coordinator: They could use us, if we were in. Did we want to take home a baby dog?
Like that’s even a question. (Okay, for Sean it is a question—but then he looks at me and my pleading face and already-bursting enthusiasm, and his answer is yes, for her.)
We drove 40 minutes to the shelter. I texted photos to my family. “They’re calling them the Friends litter. Who do you think we’ll get?” It was just for excitement’s sake; I didn’t care in the slightest. Chandler, Ross, and Phoebe all looked perfect.
Then we were met with good—albeit selfishly disappointing—news when we arrived. The three puppies had been claimed more quickly than expected. I was ready to leave, intent on heading home to play with my own dog, when a staff member stepped out with a gray-and-white potato in her hands. She placed him in mine. “This is Joey. He’s really sick, so we didn’t post his picture in the Facebook group. But do you want him?”
The decision was made for me before she finished asking. It was cinched the instant she placed this baby dog’s warm, trembling body in my arms, the instant he leaned into my chest more still than any eight-week-old puppy should be. I’d usually like to think for a while about something like this. Discuss the possibilities with Sean, make sure we were prepared, understand what “really sick” meant and guard my home and heart as necessary.
But there was no world where I could hand him back after that moment. “Of course.”
So we drove home with Joey on my lap, his belly distended with a staggering volume of worms, his breathing shallow but steady. He was shy at first—or perhaps just exhausted—but he wagged his small tail and leaned in for affection when I placed him on the ground in front of Sean. He was ours, then, at least until he grew healthy enough to become someone else’s.
And grow healthy he did.
The first few days I fed him soaked kibble by the tablespoon. I messaged the foster coordinator almost constantly. I worried he’d get worse—I worried Scout’s “I really wish this tiny creature was not in my home” attitude would hold him back—I worried I didn’t know what I was doing. But by his second day in the Thompson-Young-Finch household Joey was tentatively dragging around a toy as big as his own body. Ten days later he was a downright demon, maniacally engaging in classic puppy mayhem—eating shoes, biting fingers, yelling with glee—and each moment of chaos made me feel calmer. He was going to be fine.
When Hurricane Ian made it to our house, Joey took one look out the front door—it wasn’t yet storming, just drizzling with preliminary wind—and threw himself back on his pile of blankets. (We ended up placing pee pads in our bathtub so he wouldn’t have to relieve himself outside.) I’ll never forget the two days Sean stayed home from work due to the weather and we all huddled in the living room, Scout tolerating Joey’s presence as long as he stayed in one spot sans mischief.
Eventually we brought home Joey’s brother, Ross, too. He was sick with an upper respiratory infection and needed to change fosters. What’s one more unwell baby dog in a house where we already kept everyone separate with Scout? Together the puppies blossomed further, wrestling and yipping and climbing the entire house—including me—like it was all a big jungle gym. We carefully brought them out into the world, pausing for passive socialization at coffee shops and ice cream parlors. We fell in love.
Then we had to say goodbye. We drove Joey and Ross to the SPCA to meet their new families on October 13th. I wrote a handwritten card for each adopter; I sent Ross with his favorite toy. I couldn’t believe how much bigger they both looked, how much harder it was to hold them—I remembered Joey’s limp form in my hands that first day and wanted to cry.
But watching our babies with their new families, all that came out was a grin. I was trusted to watch them only for a time, but I’ll owe them a “thank you” for the rest of my life.
