She’s become my sidekick, my right-hand man, and my better [canine] half. She’s become my stress reliever, my stable constant, and my calm within the storm. She’s become my confidant, my shoulder to cry on, and my best [canine] bud. She’s become everything I could ever want in a dog.
What I struggle with the most is that she’s a dog who seemingly no one else wants—except me.
My other better half (the human one) is the voice of reason and tried to thwart off my persuasive attempts toward adoption:
She doesn’t bark, he says. Dogs should bark. Non-barking dogs in condos make for happy neighbors.
She farts, he says. Every dog farts. Plus, you’re not going to adopt me out because I fart, are you?
She smells, he says. Yeah, like cinnamon graham crackers.
She’s too big to sleep on the bed, he says. So what? We’ll buy a bigger bed.
She’s too big for this condo, he says. So what? We’ll buy a bigger house.
For every excuse, I have a comeback—however irrational. So now he reminds me of the truth. We started fostering to help as many dogs as possible. Adopting Karina would mean we couldn’t continue to foster. We could take an overnight guest once in awhile and keep the dogs separate. But having a constant flow of dogs in the house would be impossible with her.
Some of my friends have said, Just adopt the damn dog. But I’ve reached the point where I know adopting this dog is selfish. She can be placed elsewhere. Despite our lack of success thus far, I know she’ll make a great pet for a lucky family.
And so, I tell Karina that we’re waiting for her upgrade to come along. You know, Rina, the family with the big backyard where you can run and not sit around this condo and gain weight? You know, the one with the kids who will chase you around and dress you up in funny outfits? You know the one I’m talking about, right? She drops her head in my lap. We have to help other dogs, Karina. She looks up. She understands, but I’m not sure I do.