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The Saga of Me and Charlie
May. 12th, 2021 06:40 pmSo, a while ago I talked about how I had a foster dog - gorgeous Charlie - who I had originally been meant to be watching for a few days while his owner was in hospital, but there were complications and he ended up staying with me for a month. Fine, he's a good boy and no trouble. He went home, stayed over the weekend, but his owner couldn't walk him, could I possibly take him for another few weeks? And, hey, minor surgery is still surgery, I want to be helpful, give me the dog. Charlie was with me for another three - four, maybe? - weeks. He went home, Charlie's owner was delighted, Charlie did cartwheels, happy endings all round, huzzah!
Three weeks pass and one afternoon I get a phone call out of the blue: the owner can't look after Charlie and is going to have to rehome him: Do I want a second dog?
Um.
Okay, this is partly my fault. When the owner was in hospital I didn't want him worrying about Charlie, so I made a big deal (all true, btw) of how great I thought Charlie was, how taken he seemed to be with me, and how Charlie and my dog Freya got on like a house on fire.
But.
Charlie was diagnosed with joint dysplasia before he was one. He's only four and has already cost his owner 10k in vet bills. I work in social care for peanuts over the minimum wage. I already have one pretty large, expensive dog to feed and insure and take to the vet when she needs. There's no way, I'm sorry. But if you really can't look after him I can foster him while you sort out something more permanent. So I go to collect Charlie and it's immediately obvious that their plan to rehome him was, well, me, there is no plan B. They haven't looked up the details of any of the breed specific or general rescue and rehoming charities. So I leave them with that information (which was, btw, the result of not more than five minutes of googling) and take Charlie home. Everything potters along grand for a month or so, albeit I don't hear anything from Charlie's owners, until the guy calls me one morning to say that he's decided against rehoming Charlie, it's breaking his heart, he can't sleep for thinking about him.
And, like, I get it, my heart bleeds for the guy. If it was me who was having to give up Freya because I couldn't look after her it would be destroying me. But at the same time the guy is telling me his health is still deteriorating, he's in no fit state to look after Charlie, and I've still got this dog, and no idea how long I'm going to have him or what I'm meant to do with him. And then, just to make it worse, when I couldn't get the owner to answer his phone I called his wife and it turned out that she had no idea that her husband had decided against rehoming. So that's a third rail I'm not touching again. No, thank you.
I read this thing about adopted dogs this week, which tracks with my experience of rehoming, which is that it takes a dog three days to feel safe in a new home, three weeks to feel comfortable, and three months to feel like it's home. And it's been more than three months. Charlie is snoring on one of my trainers as I write this, he obviously thinks this is where he lives, and the longer this goes on it makes moving him to a new home a bigger wrench to Charlie's owner, to me, to Freya, but mostly to Charlie.
He can't stay here - and I don't know how to say that without sounding like a total dick.
Three weeks pass and one afternoon I get a phone call out of the blue: the owner can't look after Charlie and is going to have to rehome him: Do I want a second dog?
Um.
Okay, this is partly my fault. When the owner was in hospital I didn't want him worrying about Charlie, so I made a big deal (all true, btw) of how great I thought Charlie was, how taken he seemed to be with me, and how Charlie and my dog Freya got on like a house on fire.
But.
Charlie was diagnosed with joint dysplasia before he was one. He's only four and has already cost his owner 10k in vet bills. I work in social care for peanuts over the minimum wage. I already have one pretty large, expensive dog to feed and insure and take to the vet when she needs. There's no way, I'm sorry. But if you really can't look after him I can foster him while you sort out something more permanent. So I go to collect Charlie and it's immediately obvious that their plan to rehome him was, well, me, there is no plan B. They haven't looked up the details of any of the breed specific or general rescue and rehoming charities. So I leave them with that information (which was, btw, the result of not more than five minutes of googling) and take Charlie home. Everything potters along grand for a month or so, albeit I don't hear anything from Charlie's owners, until the guy calls me one morning to say that he's decided against rehoming Charlie, it's breaking his heart, he can't sleep for thinking about him.
And, like, I get it, my heart bleeds for the guy. If it was me who was having to give up Freya because I couldn't look after her it would be destroying me. But at the same time the guy is telling me his health is still deteriorating, he's in no fit state to look after Charlie, and I've still got this dog, and no idea how long I'm going to have him or what I'm meant to do with him. And then, just to make it worse, when I couldn't get the owner to answer his phone I called his wife and it turned out that she had no idea that her husband had decided against rehoming. So that's a third rail I'm not touching again. No, thank you.
I read this thing about adopted dogs this week, which tracks with my experience of rehoming, which is that it takes a dog three days to feel safe in a new home, three weeks to feel comfortable, and three months to feel like it's home. And it's been more than three months. Charlie is snoring on one of my trainers as I write this, he obviously thinks this is where he lives, and the longer this goes on it makes moving him to a new home a bigger wrench to Charlie's owner, to me, to Freya, but mostly to Charlie.
He can't stay here - and I don't know how to say that without sounding like a total dick.