The hole that Martha left: on fostering pets and saying goodbye

The name Martha has popped up in my life three times this week.

Each time, I felt a thump-thump in my chest.

A tiny ache in my heart, the size of our former foster pup ... Miss Martha.

We housed the little chihuahua (at five pounds, she was a very little chi) for nearly eight weeks during November and December while she healed from a broken jaw and other assorted health issues. She'd spend her days curled up asleep in my lap while I typed over her, or wiggling and wriggling around the house like a puppy (she was 9).

The day I had to hand her back over to the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region's foster program so she could be put up for adoption, I cried.

I cried that morning. I cried packing up all her gear. I cried in the car on the way over. I cried walking up to the door of the shelter.

With tears in my eyes, I asked my supervisor there if I was the only one who, um, cried so much.

She laughed and shook her head no. Not at all.

Part of me wanted to stuff Martha back into the purse I had with me (the one I never thought I'd carry a dog in) and run.

But the logical part of me knew I couldn't. We'd already decided that for many reasons Martha was not a good fit for our family, or more importantly, Lucy, our Boston terrier.

But it hurt.

That moment when as a foster mom you have to literally hand over the dog you've cared for for months (or weeks, or days, the amount of time doesn't really matter) and say goodbye is heart-wrenching. You have no idea where they'll end up, or who will adopt them. You don't know if it'll take one day or three months of them sitting, alone, in a kennel.

Do they wonder where you went?

I've fostered twice now, and I know that by fostering a pet, I'm helping to save two pets — the one who lives with me and the one who receives the kennel space as a result.

I know that pets do better if they can heal injuries in a loving home.

I know that every day a pet spends with a foster, is 24 hours of love and care and hope — something they maybe have never had depending on their situation.

I know that in Martha's case, she was adopted the day after I returned her. In my mind, I picture her with a happy family, curled up in their laps while they type around her, or chase her about their home.

I know that light cannot exist without dark, so it's important to embrace them both in your life.

But I also know that I'm not certain my heart can take another hole.

(At least, not yet.)

(This is my Day 5 contribution to the Your Turn Challenge. Read others' contributions and learn more here.)

You can teach an old dog new tricks

She chews on rocks like I chew on ice.

She flips her doggy bed upside-down and lays atop the dirty bottom, piling her stuffies around her.

She's surprised that something is coming out of her tush every single time she poops.

She is not the sharpest tool in the shed.

But my foster pup Martha is adorable. And full of love. And I'm amazed that, at 9 years old and just five pounds, she still can and does learn "new tricks."

Martha came to live with us about six weeks ago from the Humane Society for the Pikes Peak Region. You can read more about her history in an earlier post here.

When she arrived, she only used an indoor puppy pad for pottying. She'd bark for a very long time when we tried to crate her at night. Couldn't climb any stairs. Couldn't jump off a couch (though regularly jumped up, and then barked to be let down). Had no interest in walking on a leash.

In six short weeks, she's learned to do her business outside (though she still uses a puppy pad if nature calls and I don't respond fast enough). She curls up in her crate when it's time for bed. She climbs up our staircases like a pro (though we're still working on down — the wood floors are slippery). She still prefers to be lifted off the couch, but she's jumping down on her own about 50 percent of the time.

I imagine she lived a very different life before she arrived as a stray at HSPPR. And I admit, I've sort of taken to carrying her around in a bag — she loves to watch the world go by from up high. But I do hope her new life skills will make her only that much more successful in her future home with her yet-to-be-determined forever family.

I will, however, leave this stubborn sitter's leash training to them.

On dogs and resilience ... and love

I had grand plans last night to big-A-accomplish things. I was going to cook dinner. Bake some lime-glazed, gluten-free, vegan banana bread. Write a blog post. Finish this week's laundry, maybe iron a little.

Instead, I spent the evening propped up by pillows in my bed, with a 5-pound, 9-year-old chihuahua curled up on my lap.

I watched her breathe.

I felt her warm body under my fingers.

I listened to her oh-so-soft snore.

I even tried to read, but my eyes kept coming back to her tiny, tiny figure.

The little pup in my lap is my second foster from the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region (HSPPR). I'm not new to volunteering for this organization — I spent almost seven years either walking dogs or helping out in the marketing department — but I am new to the foster program.

The first foster I received this fall, a 3-month-old shepherd mix puppy named Tilly, came to me with a cast on one of her back legs to help her heal broken toes, and a cone of shame on her head (to keep her from messing with said cast).

This pup, named Martha, is with me while she heals a broken jaw — the result of a large amount of dental work she had to have in her itty-bitty mouth when she arrived as a stray at HSPPR. She has a wire poking out of the bottom of her chin, to help everything set properly.

Now, if I had a wire poking out the bottom of my chin (or a cone around my head and a cast on my leg for weeks on end), I would be grumpier than all get out.

But Martha takes one look at me and her tail begins to wag, her butt begins to wiggle and she just grins. She doesn't care how she looks or why her tongue now hangs out of her mouth most of the time. Or that I've dressed her in a worn, slightly awkward-fitting, kind of ugly fleece sweatshirt because it's dang cold this week. Or that she's been shipped from who-knows-where to shelter, to vet, back to shelter, and now to my home.

Her resilience is a beautiful thing to experience.

And it reminds me that, with just a little bit of love, we can all survive so much more than we think we can.