Oh Beatrix. You joined our happy little household as a Foster Dog late Sunday afternoon and I think you bewitched us completely by Sunday evening. Oh, around 7:06 p.m. Remember? You did a somersault in the grass, made a little squeeky puppy sound and came running to us for safety? That's really all it took to melt our hearts. We're saps that way.
So now we find ourselves back in puppy mode. It's a familiar pattern for veteran dog guardians. It's kind of like being a hyperactive kindergarten teacher. "Where is Beatrix?" "What is in her mouth?" "Does she have to pee?" "Did you see her pee?" "Why is it so quiet?" "Is she hungry?" "How much did she drink?" "Did she poo-poo yet?" "Eww, what is THAT in her mouth?"
Alex and I have not had a single conversation in 4 days that does not begun or ended with a Beatrix's potty record in great detail. I'll spare you the details. It's super romantic.
Be we remain committed. Foster Failure is not an option. It's our mantra. Even as she snores while sleeping on your chest. Which I have to tell you is the cutest thing ever. Sigh.
Is it really failure if she finds herself the right home? Has found herself the right home?
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