Foster Failure: The Dachshund Rebellion of 2011

On Tuesday, I finally went to get a new puppy.

The Humane Society gave me a foster foster—a dog to babysit while the foster parents were out of town. I met the foster father at to make the switch.

When I arrived and apparently through some miscommunication, my supposedly girl dog had some um, not-girly appendages.

I took him anyways.

Shaggy was fine on the way home, although the little dog smelled like sewage. No big deal. He was allegedly house broken, they said.

When I put him inside my apartment, he fell apart. Shortly after, I fell apart.

He did every biological function you can imagine. He did them repeatedly and simultaneously. He fell on his side and shook. I’m not certain, but I think he had a seizure. He bit me. He bit Daisy. He bit me again.

All of that happened within the first 15 minutes. I couldn't have screwed up in the first 15 minutes. All I did was set him down.

So I regrouped. The first thing had to be a bath. I couldn’t hold him because he smelled so bad.

Daisy can’t get out of my bathtub, but this monster—I mean weenie dog—kept jumping out.

I was soaking wet. He was, well, he was fairly dry.

Shaggy: 1, Jessie: 0

Daisy went and hid on the balcony.

Shaggy jumped on my bed and went almost catatonic. He wouldn’t respond to food or walking. He just sat there, staring.

So he sat there for another 45 minutes, staring.

I started to panic. I called everyone I knew to tell them about the ferious dog I was with. Without fail, they asked what kind. I couldn’t remember the word “Dachshund” so I kept calling him the “weenie dog.”

Do you know what doesn’t sound scary? Anything with the word “weenie” in it.

Freddy probably didn’t sound scary either until they added Krueger to it.

So there I am, staring at this football-shaped dog, wondering why God makes some things so funny looking.

I pick up the front end and it poops. I picked up the back end and it bites. This goes on for another 15 minutes.

Then I gave up. Earlier that day my vet told me sometimes a dog won’t work with your family. This one didn’t. I feel bad that I didn’t give him longer, but if he was that miserable and his foster parents were going out of town, I don’t think he would have made it the next six days.

He went back to his foster father who really didn’t seem surprised at what had happened.

I don’t give up easy. Daisy was scared of stairs when I got her and I carried all 50 pounds up and down three flights of stairs for six months. I’ve never seen a dog so unhappy as Shaggy was those four hours in my home.

I’m not giving up on fostering, but I am regrouping.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

• Daisy doesn’t like boy dogs. She never has. That was the first problem because she’s my priority. When I showed up and the dog wasn’t a girl, I shouldn’t have taken it. I tend to be a push over and that has to stop for Daisy. If a dog isn’t right for us, we have to be smart and not make ourselves—the other dog included—miserable. I don't know what happened to Daisy those first few years before I got her. She barely has any teeth. Another dog bit her. She was starved, beaten, left out and thrown down the stairs. There's a reason she doesn't like boy dogs.
• It needs to be smaller than a Dachshund.  I’ve set a 10-pound max weight on the new little beast.
• I need to focus on making the right choice instead of being hurried. Everyone in this situation was hurried because of Christmas travels.
• I need personal reference from dog owners on the temperament of different breeds. I’m looking at Pugs, Yorkies, Terriers and King Charles Spaniels now. I’ve emailed a few friends who have those, but feel free to chime in if you have a dog you love or don’t love. Bichon Frises are out because of the spawn of Satan my parents have.
• I’m eternally thankful for my here. Right before I went to the Humane Society, she gave me some great advice about how some dogs aren’t for you. You’re not a bad person if you don’t like them, and they’re not bad dogs. They’re just not your dogs.
• Daisy set the bar high. I have to keep her in mind and not get guilted into making the wrong choice for everyone and every dog.

I come from a long line of dog people, and the one thing I’ve learned is that we don’t pass them around. Once we commit to loving them forever, we keep them for their freakishly long lives. That’s why it’s so important to me to foster a dog before making that decision.