It’s important to choose your words carefully when writing a website bio for your foster dog. I mean, you certainly want them to get adopted. So occasionally you might resort to a euphemism or two: “Smiles often” sounds better than “Bares teeth upon approach”. Better to say “Has a soft mouth” than “If you put the steak down, and back away slowly…”. “Displays excellent protective instincts”, will garner more interest than “UPS will no longer deliver to this address”.

None of this has anything to do with our current foster lab Kiki, of course—who promises to unclench my wrist once I finish adding this last part.

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New foster lab Kiki is a refreshingly straightforward kind of gal, very sweet. She won’t try to outwit or out-clever you. She is also smart and exceedingly teachable—although reluctant to embrace ideas she didn’t come up with herself.

Kiki was a “puller” when she came, but learned to walk on a slack leash almost immediately. She is extremely alert while walking: to anything alive or moving. She can be distracted easily, so we are working on keeping her focused. She is also a “sniffer” who will dawdle if you let her. She marks frequently (and unfailingly in front of any house where there’s a mean dog behind a locked gate). She socializes well with other dogs, but seems more of a “people” dog—so might be happiest in a home without other dogs. She has not been exposed to cats in a household setting. She barks appropriately, and crates well. She rides well in the car, crated or at liberty. She has shown little interest in toys, generally; and needs to work on the second half of “fetch an bring”. She loves treats.

She is now learning “stop at the threshold, until given the release word”. She knows “come” and (sorta) “stay”. She is spotty with “sit”, but she’s got “down” down. She adores attention, but will give space. She occasionally jumps up when greeting people, but understands “off” and “no”. We were told she’s a “counter surfer”—but have yet to see her catch a wave.

Kiki’s coat is deep black, with a sheen that ripples with the light. She has the stocky conformation of the classic English lab. She is spayed and microchipped, and has all her registry papers. She is not aggressive in any way we have seen—not food-aggressive; nor toward people, or children. She’s medium-sized but solid, stronger than she knows, and sometimes a bit klutzy. She can be boisterous if excited—so she may not be suitable for homes where small children could get bowled over.

All in all, we have found Kiki a smart, well-behaved and wonderfully engaging house guest. Sadly though, she came to us only after being rescued from a small vet’s office—where she’d been kept in virtual isolation for six weeks or more. She’s obviously been through several pregnancies. Now she needs exercise and walks and lots of ear scratching. If you’d like to provide those, she waits for you here in San Jose, to come take her home. Included at no additional cost comes a heart filled with love and devotion and wonder and trust. Forever. Just give her a call.

We’ll let Kiki answer.

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“…so now she’s totally out of shape, and could really stand to lose a few pounds…” the Lab Rescue lady informed me with a seemingly genuine catch in her voice. “She really needs to get out of her current situation. Think you could foster her?”

Wait a minute! Why is it that every time these guys get a dog that’s overweight and out of shape, they think of me? Just a coincidence? Have they been hacking into my annual whole milk purchases? Illegally observing me using out-of-work Paparazzi? I walk. Sometimes.

“This dog’s not bald, is she?” I asked.

There was a long pause as she slid into “Why, no…of course not.” A nervous laugh. “Why would it occur to you to ask  that?”. She tinkled cautiously.

“Oh, just a passing thought,” I said.

I’ll ask the dog if she wants to set up a training regimen. I figure the Snickers bar will help.

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Rufus left us to be with his forever family. We took an extra-long walk on our last afternoon, to give him a chance to say goodbye to every tree and blade of grass. It was less than a mile, but took us about an hour-and-a-half. I talked to him all the way, as I always do. He can’t hear, but he listens.

When we got home, he brought in his Superdog vest and laid it in my lap—the one that says “Adopt Me”. He said he doesn’t need it anymore and please give it to the next worthy candidate. Then he put his head in my lap and I spent half-an-hour scratching him everywhere that needed scratching.

The doorbell rang and we both got up to answer it. Rufus looked back wistfully at the vest on the chair. I’m really going to miss that, his eyes said.

Either way, I said, you’ll always be a Super-hero to me.

I opened the door…

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As we walk around our neighborhood with a new foster lab, neighbors flock to meet the latest guy or gal. Kids fawn, ooh-ing and ahh-ing, and the lab gets more attention than is probably healthy. “You two must be saints,” someone pipes up. “I could never foster a lab,” adds another. “Don’t you want to adopt every one?” The answers are no, sure you could, and, sometimes it’s hard.

Our foster labs come from all walks of life, so to speak. Each breaks the mold of all the others who came before. If they’re lucky, they’ve been surrendered from a stable home, with never a bad day in their life. The unlucky ones have simply been left to the streets, competing for every scrap of food and place of warmth.

They often arrive confused and frightened; in need of more food, more exercise and more belly rubs. By offering safety, security and structure, we try to help them lose some baggage, learn some manners, and go on to their forever homes a little more confident and comfortable with themselves.

From the first, our job is to observe and evaluate. Our neighborhood is a veritable “Hogan’s Alley”. There’s squirrels and cats and sometimes bigger things foraging as we take our walks before dawn. Walkers, bikers, strollers, joggers, birds landing. Dogs being walked, others behind fences and gates, behind windows. Traffic along this street; lawnmowers and leaf-blowers down that one. Quite a test. Especially if you expect good behavior on a slack leash.

We do. We have to. Because a dog that behaves properly is a safe dog, a fun dog, a happy dog. Off, stay, go to place. Do not cross the threshold—in or out—without the release word. All important. Yet there is still time for fun and play. Fetch and tug. Bring it and leave it. Catch the treat. “Good dog.” Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“How can you bear to let them go?” is the fourth—often whispered—question. Again, sometimes it’s hard. But that is not our role. Ours is to offer comfort, continuity, and help our furry friends move just a little bit down the road from where they are, to where they can be. Until the day their new forever family knocks on our door—that one whose eyes light up, whose hearts reach, and whose lives will be brightened by their new friend. That is our role; that is our reward. Elsie, Dodge, Maui, Darby, Zoey, Bob, Rufus…each so indelible and unforgettable.

But they don’t have to live in our house, to live in our hearts.

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I think Rufus is getting a little too caught up in this whole “Superdog” thing. I should never have told him that his “Adopt Me” vest gives him real super powers.

Today we were walking down Pine, a busy street, when a gorgeous female collie—hair like spun gold in the low morning sun—began crossing over to our small neighborhood park. Behind her, three little porkers bounced jauntily along—no doubt excited about their upcoming romp-and-sniff party. She walked slowly, attentive only to their care and safety.

Suddenly, from around the corner, a Pete’s Pepperoni truck came careening out of control. The truck veered from side-to-side as the driver stomped ineffectually on the brake pedal. The mother collie had reached the curb and turned in alarm to see her little brood wide-eyed and frozen in terror. With speed only a mother’s instinct could fuel, she dashed back into the line of fire to push her pups away from the danger—at whatever the cost—but only arrived in time to join them in the deadly path. The shadow loomed higher and longer as the cab came nearer. The mother collie stood tall and proud and faced the danger, while her pups cowered shivering behind her.

The leash went slack in my hand.

All at once there was a loud chomping sound, and the rear end of the truck left the ground. A deep growl filled the air. Smoke appeared from behind as the truck began to slow. Another growl, more smoke and four deep furrows began plowing their way into the asphalt behind. The birds had stopped singing; time stood still. The truck slowed more, and stopped inches from the terrified collies. The driver was scratching his head.

The mother immediately sprung to her little ones, and nosed them safely to the curb, where she began inspect and lick them all over. Then, inexplicably, she looked our way—where Rufus stood quietly at at my side, panting a little—no doubt from all the excitement. The mother collie barked at him once, loudly, then turned and trotted off to catch her brood that was scampering ahead toward the big maple tree.

The truck driver was out laying flares, and examining the truck’s mangled rear bumper. The birds began singing again. Rufus and I went off down the street. Me, wondering what exactly I had just seen; Rufus happily chomping on a piece of pepperoni.

Maybe I’ll let him wear the vest a while longer.

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When you see foster lab Rufus without that “Adopt Me” vest he wears during our frequent walks, whatever you do…pretend you don’t know him.

I told him the vest was a “Superdog” costume. Made him faster than a streaking squirrel up a tree, stronger than a sled dog pulling the sled by himself, able to leap tall fences in a single bound.

Whenever he feels like it, of course.…

He believes that while wearing his vest he can apprehend canine culprits and their cohorts. Thwart things that need thwarting. Resist thrown pieces of bacon (well, maybe). Out of the vest, he’s just Rufus, and doesn’t have to resist the bacon.

He likes being a Superdog. Please don’t expose his secret identity by recognizing him out of costume. Thank you.

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New foster lab Rufus is a man who knows his fractions.

He arrived a little underweight, so we decided to push his meals up to two cups morning and night. But when I did that, he only ate two-thirds of what I gave him. So I backed it off to a cup-and-a-half—no need to waste food—and he ate two-thirds of that. He did the same with one cup. Then, being as I am blessed with having the superior brain, I decided to outfox him by upping things to three cups. No good. He still subtracted a third—then subtracted a third again.

Now I’ve changed my strategy completely—using addition instead of subtraction. It’s working too. Because ever since I started adding that generous spoonful of chopped turkey with each meal, I swear he’d lick the sticker off the bowl if one tiny shred got stuck to it.

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We have rules here for our foster labs, and certain social and obedience skills we work on, but lots of dogs try to get out of them. Simple resistance or obstinacy won’t work. Belligerence, no. Stubbornness, deceit—no.

But with foster lab Rufus, it’s empathy. He has me wrapped around his dew claw. You see, he’s got a heart problem.

He’s pretty old at ten. Gray muzzle. Tends to start tinkling on the mow strip, then move on before he’s finished, leaving a trail down the sidewalk. He’s almost stone deaf. Needs to develop some muscle mass and strength in the hind end. But that’s not it of course. I’m worried about his heart problem.

Oh, it pumps all right, moves the blood around. But I think he’s never really had much attention paid to him. No “good boy”s. Maybe he was left alone with just a bowl and a blanket. Like he was left alone at that dog park, where some kind person noticed him and brought him in. So now he stays with us, heart bursting with a lifetime of love and devotion—waiting for just the right people to give it all to.

When he finds those people, he’ll have no more heart problem.

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