January 22–23, 2007
I love this dog. He loves me. He’s my favorite foster dog ever. I don’t want to give him back. Many people are lined up to adopt him once he recovers from his operation. However, I’m thinking about the legal advantages of possession.
January 24–26
I’m miserable. Every day I love this dog more. He loves me more than life itself. He is perfect in every way. He hasn’t even puked in the house yet. And there were just the two times in the car. He’s sweet, gentle, mellow, smart, obedient, undemanding and affectionate. He’s good with the cats. He tolerates Stella.
I observe how well he fits into our household, transparent Elizabethan collar and all.
All day long my brain goes around in circles: “Could I possibly keep another dog? Yes. No. Yes. No…”
January 27–28
No. I really can’t. Stella is enough.
I’m devastated at having to part with Birdie. I took him to Milo on Saturday so he could meet his myriad potential adopters, hugged him goodbye and ran out. I got to play with a torch and white-hot glass all day, which made me feel better, except when I was burning myself or watching my molten creations explode.
I got a call from Lynne at Milo at 6:30 that evening: “Could you possibly keep Birdie for one—”
I was on their doorstep almost before she finished her sentence.
The next day I bid Birdie farewell again, this time forever. Luckily, he was too happy visiting with the Milo people that he didn’t even look over his furry shoulder as I left.
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