Taking Life with Chances

Dogs were always kind of like kids in my book. I liked everyone else’s, I just didn’t want my own.

I figured I’d do the dog thing when I was done being a selfish person and ready for that level of commitment. I wasn’t a fan of the messy house that comes with a dog — hair everywhere, accidents, having to walk them no matter the weather.

I grew up with dogs, and I do love them… I just didn’t want one of my own.

Unlike a lot of people, I didn’t pull the trigger during the pandemic. I thought about it, but never went through with it.

Then one day I started hearing stories about people adopting older dogs — giving them a good life for whatever time they had left, letting them pass peacefully. That idea felt really beautiful to me.

Death has never hit me the same way it does some people. Sad, yes… but also a part of life. And if I’m being honest, it also felt like a shorter commitment.

There was a rescue I had been donating to for some time that worked with dogs from California and Mexico, and I knew they had senior dogs. I reached out and told them I was interested in helping with the older ones.

They had a 12-year-old dog they suggested I meet.

I went down, sat on the floor, ready for this sweet, meaningful connection…

…and she sat across the room staring at me.

We just didn’t vibe.

It became pretty clear we weren’t a match.

As I was getting ready to leave, the woman working there asked how I felt about fostering a puppy.

I said absolutely not.

She laughed a little and told me about a roughly 8-month-old dog they had. He had been found wandering the streets of Tijuana. He’d been with them for about four months, and they really wanted to get him into a foster home so he could learn some things.

She explained how fostering worked — about a three-week commitment. If he didn’t get adopted, he’d come back.

They also mentioned they prefer first-time fosters not adopt their first dog.

I agreed to meet him.

I sat back down on the floor, thinking, What am I doing? It’s only three weeks.

I heard him before I saw him.

Running down the hallway.

Before I could even look up, this tall, thin, tan creature launched himself into my lap, licking my face, knocking me completely over.

And that was it.

They told me his name was Chance.

They put a harness on him, handed me his leash, offered me supplies — all of which I declined because I figured I could cover it for three weeks.

I had never owned a dog on my own. I had no idea what I was doing, especially with a rescue who was about to be introduced to a completely new world.

He curled up in my passenger seat on the drive home.

We stopped at the pet store so I could spoil him a little, then went to my parents’ house so he could meet everyone.

After his busy first day, I brought him home.

And immediately broke all my rules.

He was allowed on the couch.

That night, he curled up next to me in bed, wrapped himself around my arm, and fell asleep like he had always been there.

It felt like he was saying thank you.

I fell in love with him that first night.

I “foster failed” two days later.

Didn’t even make it a week.

I knew he was my buddy.

What I wasn’t expecting was how much it would bring out my co-dependent tendencies. How much I would worry about whether he’s happy.

I also get a lot of shit for this, but I don’t like being called a dog mom. I didn’t give birth to him. I prefer being his human.

He’s anxious. He has allergies. Tummy issues. He’s incredibly smart… and incredibly stubborn.

He brings me joy. He brings me frustration.

And I worry about him more than I probably should.

We’ve been together almost three years now. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind.

And while I’ve said before that if I could do it again, I might have waited a little longer…

Nothing beats coming home to him wiggling his butt with a toy in his mouth.

Or the way he curls up next to me at night.