My foster dog Joy was adopted yesterday.

A few days ago, we received the devastating news that Joy has terminal cancer. The mammary mass she had removed was a high-grade carcinoma that has likely already spread to her lymphatic system. It was heartbreaking news. But before I could even begin to process it, something unexpected happened. People started asking to adopt Joy.

They didn’t see a terminal diagnosis when they looked at her. They saw a six-pound, ten-year-old little girl with a giant personality and a tail that never stops wagging. They saw her joyous spirit, her silliness, her affection. They saw Joy. And they wanted the chance to give her a life filled with love, however long that life may be.

One of those people was Lisa.

Lisa had been following me on Facebook for a while. She had actually wanted to adopt my recent foster, Eddie, but the timing hadn’t worked out. I’ve always been a firm believer that the right dog will find you at the right time, and looking back now, I can’t help but wonder if maybe Eddie wasn’t meant to be hers because Joy was.

We met Lisa and her chihuahua, Luna, for the meet-and-greet. Luna and Joy greeted each other with happy tail wags, but the moment that stays with me is what happened when I picked Joy up and placed her on Lisa’s lap.

Joy sat there for nearly the entire meeting. The two of them were sitting together in the sunshine, this tiny dog nestled comfortably against a woman she had only just met. Lisa stroked her gently, talked to her, smiled at her, and I watched the expression on her face change as she fell a little more in love with Joy with every passing minute. And Joy seemed to feel it too. She was completely content, basking in the warmth of the morning and the attention of this person who was already looking at her as though she were something precious.

I have said before that Joy is exactly what her name suggests. She is pure joy. I knew anyone who met her would have a hard time saying no to her, but watching her with Lisa felt different. There was something about seeing Joy sitting there in her lap, completely relaxed and at peace, that made me feel like I was witnessing something that was supposed to happen. Lisa held her close, and I could see Joy melt into her. It felt less like they were meeting for the first time and more like they had finally found each other.

Before we even left, Lisa told us she wanted to adopt Joy.

The adoption still had to be finalized officially, so I took Joy home with me while the paperwork was completed. But everything happened so quickly. Lisa was able to finalize the adoption virtually and was so excited and eager to welcome Joy into her home that she offered to come pick her up from me just a few hours later.

And suddenly, it was time to say goodbye.

When Lisa came to pick up Joy, something happened that I will never forget. As soon as I opened the door, Joy saw her and immediately got excited. Her tail started wagging, her whole body seemed to light up, and she recognized her instantly. But it felt like more than simply recognizing someone she had met earlier that day. It was almost as if Joy understood that Lisa was hers now, that this was the person who had chosen her, that this was the woman who was taking her home. In that moment, I truly knew Joy was home.

That moment has stayed with me because Lisa knows Joy’s diagnosis. She knows their time together may be painfully short. She knows there will eventually be a goodbye, and that it may come much sooner than either of them would ever want. And she chose Joy anyway.

There is something profoundly beautiful about being willing to love someone when you already know you cannot keep them forever. Lisa didn’t choose Joy because she believed she would have years with her. She chose her knowing that the time they have may be measured in months, or perhaps less. She chose her because she understood that a short life can still be a full one, and that limited time does not mean love is somehow less worth giving.

That kind of love takes courage. And I think that is why this adoption has stayed with me in a way that is difficult to put into words. I wasn’t simply watching a foster dog get adopted. I was watching someone look directly at the possibility of heartbreak and decide that it was still worth opening her heart. Joy’s diagnosis didn’t make her less deserving of a family. If anything, it made the love waiting for her feel even more precious.

I’ve been asked more times than I can count why I adopt senior dogs, knowing I may have less time with them than I would with a younger dog. But I don’t think love has ever been measured by the number of days we get. It is measured by what we do with them.

Senior dogs have taught me to slow down, to notice the ordinary things, and to appreciate a warm body beside me, a sleepy face in the morning, a dog curled up in a patch of sunlight. They have taught me that a life does not have to be long to be extraordinary.

Joy may have a shorter future than she deserves, but she will not spend it wondering whether she is loved. She will spend it with Lisa, with Luna, in a home where she is wanted, cherished, and safe. And when the time comes for Lisa to say goodbye, it will hurt. Of course it will hurt. Loving someone always leaves us vulnerable to loss. But Joy will have known love. She will have known what it feels like to belong to someone, to have a home, to be chosen completely. And that matters.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what it means to have faith in people. There is plenty in this world that makes cynicism feel justified. There is cruelty and indifference and suffering everywhere we look. Sometimes it is easier to believe that people are becoming less kind, less compassionate, less willing to care about something that doesn’t directly benefit them.

But then there is Lisa. There is a woman who looked at a tiny dog with cancer and didn’t ask how much time she would get. She asked whether she could give Joy a good life with whatever time remained.

There is Luna, who has a new sister. There is a home waiting for a dog who, not long ago, had no idea where she belonged. And there is Joy, who somehow went from a stray dog with an uncertain future to falling asleep in the home of someone who chose her completely, knowing exactly how this story will eventually end.

Maybe this is what hope looks like. Not believing that bad things won’t happen. Not pretending that heartbreak doesn’t exist. But believing that even in the face of something heartbreaking, people can still choose love. Sometimes, I think we spend so much time looking for proof that there is something wrong with the world that we forget to look for the evidence that there is something right with it. I found some of that evidence yesterday. It was sitting in Lisa’s lap, in a patch of morning sunshine, with her tail wagging.

There is still good in the world. You just have to know where to look for it. And sometimes, the good in the world looks a lot like a woman named Lisa saying yes to a little dog named Joy.

I think they found each other at exactly the right time.

As I shared in my last article, Joy underwent surgery last week to remove two of her largest mammary masses. One came back benign, but the larger mass was diagnosed as a high-grade mammary carcinoma. Her vet believes it has likely already spread to her lymphatic system. Joy’s diagnosis is terminal.

Under Muttville’s amazing hospice program, Joy will now be available for hospice adoption. Her adopter will receive up to $1,500 per year toward palliative care for the rest of Joy’s life, giving her the chance to spend whatever time she has left in a loving forever home.

That is the silver lining in all of this. Joy may not have as much time as we hoped she would, but she will have the opportunity to spend that time exactly where every dog deserves to be: home.

Still, knowing that this happy, joyful little dog is sick is heartbreaking. You would never know it just by looking at her. There is nothing about Joy that says terminally ill. She is six pounds of pure enthusiasm, with a constantly wagging tail and an almost comical amount of happiness packed into her tiny body.

And that is what I keep coming back to with Joy. This tiny dog came to Muttville as a stray, likely dumped in the Central Valley, carrying a body that had clearly been through far more than it should have. She arrived covered in mammary masses and needed four surgeries just to get medically cleared for the next chapter of her life. Yet somehow, none of that seems to define her. Joy isn’t focused on what she has been through. She doesn’t seem to know that her future is uncertain. She is focused on what is happening right now: the next person she can greet, the next lap she can climb into, the next snuggle, the next meal, the next opportunity to wag her little tail. She just keeps finding reasons to be happy. And maybe that is exactly what Joy is here to teach us.

Joy has spent her life being dealt a pretty terrible hand, and somehow she keeps choosing joy. So, as heartbreaking as this diagnosis is, I don’t want her story to be about cancer. I don’t want it to be about the masses covering her tiny body, or the surgeries, or the fact that her time may be shorter than we hoped. I want it to be about the life she gets to live now. The soft beds. The full bowls. The warm laps. The little adventures. The people who will love her. The tail wags. The snuggles. All of the ordinary, beautiful things that make a dog’s life a good life. And hopefully, soon, a forever home. Maybe that is why she was given the name Joy. Because even after everything she has been through, she keeps finding it.

I’m a bit behind introducing my newest senior foster dog, because we initially brought her home as a temporary foster the weekend Daisy was adopted.

I had volunteered to take home any dog who needed a temporary foster during Muttville’s big Clear the Shelters adoption events. I ended up bringing home a tiny 6-pound, 10-year-old chihuahua that Muttville named Joybird. But almost immediately, she became just Joy. And believe me, it suits her.

Joy was found as a stray in California’s Central Valley, likely dumped. Despite whatever brought her there, this little girl seemed to arrive in our lives carrying nothing but happiness. She exudes pure joy. Her tail is almost always wagging, she loves every person she meets, and she greets the world with an enthusiasm that makes it difficult not to smile right back at her.

At the time, Joy wasn’t available for adoption because she was waiting to be medically cleared. She was facing four very big and very necessary procedures: a spay, a dental, an inguinal hernia repair, and removal of her mammary masses.

It broke my heart to know that this tiny little dog, who seemed so full of life, was carrying so much medically. But you would never know it by watching her. Joy immediately settled into our pack as though she had always belonged here. And, like so many dogs before her, she fell completely in love with my husband the second they met. When I dropped Daisy off at Muttville for the adoption event, I knew I would be coming home with a temporary foster too. Dave was simply along for the ride.

When Daisy was adopted on the second day of the event, there was no longer a reason for Joy to leave us. She could stay until she found her forever home, and I was more than happy to let this tiny, happy little dog continue to be part of our household.

Last week, I dropped Joy back off at Muttville for her big day of surgeries. I was especially worried about the mammary mass removal. Her little chest was covered in masses, including several that were very large and ulcerated. Seeing them was heartbreaking, and yet another painful reminder of how important it is to spay female dogs.

She stayed overnight at Muttville for her procedures, and when I left her, I wished her good luck and tried not to worry too much. The next afternoon, I returned to pick her up, fully expecting to find her curled up in a cozy dog bed somewhere, groggy from anesthesia and quietly recuperating after a very big day. Instead, I walked into Muttville and found Joy front and center, sitting happily on a visitor’s lap. The moment she saw me, she recognized me. She practically catapulted herself off the couch and ran straight toward me. Any evidence that she had just undergone major surgery was nowhere to be found. Her tail was wagging, she was jumping up on me, and she was completely ready to go home.

In the days since her surgery, Joy has continued to show us just how remarkably resilient she is. She is somehow even happier and more energetic than she was before, as if the surgery was merely an inconvenient interruption to her very important job of enjoying life. She is, quite literally, joy personified.

She loves to snuggle and will happily nuzzle her face into your chest if you give her the opportunity. She may be a chihuahua, but I’m also fairly certain she is at least part gremlin. She makes these tiny, happy grumbling noises that sound almost like she is quietly narrating her day, and they make me laugh every single time.

At night, she curls up on the bed beside my pups as though she has been here forever. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty, no sense that she is a dog who has only recently arrived. She simply slips into the rhythm of our little household and makes herself at home.

There is something about Joy that makes you want to slow down and appreciate the moment you’re in. She doesn’t seem to ask for much. Give her a warm lap and a cozy bed, and Joy seems to have everything she needs. Her tail keeps wagging, her little grumbles keep coming, and she seems determined to squeeze every bit of happiness out of each day.

And really, what more could you ask of a dog named Joy?

But that’s only half of the story. It’s also the story of how another grieving dog found her happiness again because of Daisy.

For the month of August, Muttville Senior Dog Rescue waived adoption fees for every qualified adopter as part of the nationwide “Clear the Shelters” campaign. To celebrate, they threw a two day, pool party themed adoption event. Think dogs in Hawaiian shirts, dogs in tiny bikinis, old dogs living their absolute best lives. I scoured the internet until I found Daisy the perfect outfit, a hot pink dress covered in flowers and pineapples. (A little known fact about me - I was in a sorority in college, and I have never once turned down a theme or a chance to dress up my dogs.) I was so sure that dress was going to be the thing that found her a family.

Daisy was the star of the event from the moment we walked in. She greeted every single visitor like they were the one person she’d been waiting for. Her tail never stopped wagging, and a huge smile on her face. She soaked up every scratch, every belly rub, every bit of attention like she’d been starving for it. But the first day came and went, and no one asked to take her home.

That day, though, I got a DM from a woman named Caitlin, a longtime Instagram follower and longtime customer of my Etsy shop who had adopted from Muttville before. She’d been watching Daisy’s story unfold online, right along with thousands of strangers who had already fallen for this girl. She was hoping to set up a meet and greet, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it before the event ended.

As we kept talking, Caitlin told me why she wanted to meet Daisy so badly. She and her husband had recently lost their senior pit bull, Pebbles. Their other dog, a senior girl named Tina, had stopped eating. She wasn’t playing. She wasn’t coming out of the bedroom. She was grieving, in that unmistakable, wordless way dogs grieve. Tina needed a friend, and Caitlin was hoping Daisy might be her.

She and her husband rushed to Muttville and made it just before the event ended.

Daisy and Tina met. Tails wagging, noses working overtime, Daisy covering her new friend in kisses. And then, like two old souls who’d known each other far longer than a few minutes, they tuckered themselves out and curled up side by side on the floor for a nap.

Caitlin and her husband, Marty, didn’t need to think it over. Daisy Mae was going home.

Daisy had just lost the only family she had ever known. Twelve years old, and she had to start completely over with no say in any of it. And somehow, instead of folding into her own grief, she walked straight toward someone else’s.

Because that’s exactly what’s happened. I’ve been in touch daily with Caitlin, so the updates have been rolling in, and they get better every time. Daisy has settled in alongside Caitlin’s four cats, including a litter of three week old foster kittens, meeting each tiny new creature with nothing but gentleness. And Tina, sweet, heartbroken Tina, is coming back. No more hiding in the bedroom. No more hunger strike. When Daisy grabs her favorite squeaky toy, Tina comes running, and the two of them run around together like a couple of puppies.

Two old girls. Two broken hearts. Daisy lost the only home she’d ever known. Tina lost her best friend. Somehow, in the space where all that loss should have been, they found each other instead, and gave each other back the one thing grief always tries to take. The belief that joy is still coming.

That’s Muttville Magic.

Over the weekend, we welcomed our 113th senior foster dog from Muttville Senior Dog Rescue, Daisy. Daisy is a 12-year-old pit bull mix who came to Muttville after her guardian passed away. She had to leave the only home she had ever known, which is the kind of upheaval that would be difficult for any dog to understand. And yet, you would never know it by looking at her.

When we walked into Muttville to meet her, Daisy was in the large-dog area surrounded by volunteers. She had already collected a little audience of admirers, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Her tail never stopped wagging. She greeted us as if we were old friends and immediately leaned into every hand that reached out to pet her. She was just as happy to be at Muttville, surrounded by new people and new friends, as she is now in our home. As long as Daisy has affection and company, she is happy.

I think about that a lot because Daisy is also the kind of dog people can make assumptions about before they ever meet her. She is a pit bull. She is 12 years old. She is very overweight. She is big and slow and not exactly graceful. But spend five minutes with her and all of those things become completely irrelevant. Daisy is incredibly sweet and gentle. She loves people, she loves attention and she really just wants to be part of whatever is happening around her.

She has especially taken a liking to my husband. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he is her person, but I have to admit she definitely seems to like him more than she likes me, which I am choosing not to take personally. During the day, while he works from home, Daisy likes to lie in the doorway of his office or at his feet while he works. When he sits on the couch, she wants to be beside him. And if he leaves the house, she lets out the most pathetic little whine the second he walks out the door. Thankfully, she recovers almost immediately and goes right back to whatever important business she was doing, usually sleeping.

She has also been wonderful with our two little senior chihuahuas. Daisy is incredibly gentle with them and seems genuinely delighted to have joined their little household. She doesn’t need to be the center of attention or rule the roost. She just wants to be one of the girls. There is something very endearing about watching this enormous, slow-moving pit bull carefully navigate life with two tiny chihuahuas who are a fraction of her size.

Daisy is, in every sense of the word, a happy dog with very simple needs. She loves a slow wander around the backyard, a good nap, a little attention and knowing that her people are nearby. She is curious about what we’re doing and always happy to investigate when something interesting is happening. She loves every person she meets and treats every guest who walks through the door like they have come specifically to see her. She is a couch potato and a house hippo through and through, and she is absolutely delightful to have around.

And somehow, despite everything that has happened to her, Daisy still seems to believe that life is pretty wonderful.

That feels remarkable to me. She lost her person. She lost her home. She was brought to a shelter surrounded by strangers and then moved again into another completely unfamiliar house with two dogs she had never met. Her entire world changed, and she simply adapted. She walked into Muttville and made friends. She walked into our house and made herself at home. There was no long adjustment period, no indication that she was waiting for her old life to come back. She just accepted this new one.

Fostering senior dogs has taught me that dogs can be so much more resilient and adaptable than we give them credit for. We worry about how they will handle change, how they will cope with losing the people and places they know, and how long it will take them to feel safe again. Sometimes, a dog like Daisy comes along and reminds us that they are capable of starting over without losing their joy.

Daisy also reminds me why I love pit bulls so much. There is still so much unfair judgment surrounding these dogs, and Daisy is a pretty wonderful rebuttal to all of it. She is gentle. She is affectionate. She is patient with my tiny dogs. She wants nothing more than to be loved, and she gives that love right back. Whatever someone might assume about her when they see her, they would be missing the very best thing about Daisy if they never took the time to meet her.

Daisy has already lost the home she knew and the person she loved. But at 12 years old, her story is not over. There is still another chapter waiting for her, and I hope it is everything she deserves. I hope she finds a family who sees what we see in her: a sweet, gentle, loving dog who doesn’t need much to be happy. Someone who will give her a soft place to land, plenty of affection, and the comfort of knowing that this time, she is home for good.

For now, she is here with us. And we feel pretty lucky to get to be part of the story that comes next.

Eddie, my 112th senior foster dog, was adopted over the weekend.

To be honest, I’m surprised by how quickly it happened.

I picked Eddie up from Muttville Senior Dog Rescue on July 16. He was 13 years old, blind, mostly deaf, living with painful eyes and a mouth full of rotten teeth. But despite everything he was carrying, it never diminished his capacity to love.

He bonded with my husband almost instantly. Despite being blind and mostly deaf, Eddie always seemed to know exactly where he was. He would bump his way around the house searching for him, and once he found him, he wanted to be right beside him. Every night, he would curl up next to him in bed, his tiny body pressed against my husband’s. There was something about the two of them that felt almost instinctive, like Eddie had decided very early on that this was his person. It was a love story that seemed to write itself, which made it all the harder to imagine that one day we’d have to say goodbye.

Just one week later, Eddie underwent bilateral enucleation surgery to remove both of his eyes. During the same procedure, he had a dental and lost 18 teeth. We assumed we’d have him through his recovery and probably well beyond. The days after surgery revolved around Eddie. Five doses of medication every day. Ice packs on his swollen face. Helping him navigate the house. Watching him slowly heal. As his pain began to fade, so much of his personality emerged. He became curious. Playful. Brave.

I couldn’t wait to see the version of Eddie who was finally free from the pain he’d been living with. I figured we’d have at least several more weeks together, maybe longer. In my experience, super seniors often wait a little longer to find their families. A super senior with no eyes? I expected we’d be waiting for the one person willing to look beyond what Eddie had lost and see everything he still had: his resilience, his joyful spirit, and his endless capacity to love. However long that took, we’d wait.

Instead, about a week after his recovery, Eddie received his first adoption application.

It wasn’t from someone who followed me on social media. It was simply a senior dog lover scrolling through Muttville’s adoptable dogs, who saw Eddie’s photo and immediately knew.

I made sure to be completely honest about the care Eddie would need and the challenges that came with adopting a blind and mostly deaf dog. I wanted the right match, not just any match. But his adopter never hesitated. From the moment he saw Eddie, he was all in. That was everything I could have hoped for. I never wanted someone I had to convince that Eddie was worthy of love. He deserved someone whose answer was an immediate yes.

And then everything happened fast. His adoption was finalized. Just like that, it was time to say goodbye. What caught us off guard wasn’t how quickly he was adopted. It was how deeply he had become part of our family. If life looked a little different, we would have adopted Eddie ourselves. If we had room for one more dog, there wouldn’t have been a second thought. But loving a foster dog sometimes means loving them enough to let them go. Eddie deserved a home where he could be the center of someone’s world. Because blind dogs need time. They need patience. They need someone to help them learn the map of an unfamiliar home until it becomes second nature. They need extra reassurance and extra hands. If we had adopted Eddie, it might have meant giving up our ability to continue fostering. And right now, too many senior dogs still need somewhere to land.

As my husband said goodbye, he leaned down and whispered to Eddie that he was getting the very best family. Then he handed Eddie back to me with tears in his eyes.

“In another world,” he said quietly, “he would have been ours.”

We hugged each other and cried. This one hurt.

Even Chloe, our oldest resident dog, seemed to know Eddie was different. She usually ignores our foster dogs, but not him. She would curl up beside him, letting his tiny, frail body lean against hers while he slept. Maybe she sensed he was vulnerable. Maybe she knew he was healing. Whatever the reason, she made sure he never had to rest alone.

When I arrived to meet Eddie’s new family, I sat in the car for a few extra minutes with him in my lap. I kissed his little head over and over while trying not to cry. I didn’t want to meet his new parents through tears. By the time I stepped out of the car, I had mostly pulled myself together.

As I walked toward them carrying Eddie, something unexpected happened. My sadness disappeared. They were smiling from ear to ear. The excitement on their faces was impossible to miss. As Eddie’s new dad reached out to hold him, I felt nothing but gratitude. I knew he was exactly where he belonged. They told me they were already completely in love with him. They proudly showed me the little pumpkin pajamas they’d bought for him. Then they told me they were planning to watch Hocus Pocus together that very night. That was the moment I knew. Eddie wasn’t just being adopted. He was already home.

These are the moments that remind me why adoption day has always been my favorite day. It’s the day someone meets a new member of their family. A day they’ll remember forever. And somehow, I get to be a small part of that story.

So yes, saying goodbye to Eddie hurt like hell. But it was worth every tear.

People often tell me they could never foster because saying goodbye would be too painful. Sometimes they’re right. Sometimes it is. But I keep doing it because I know my heartbreak is temporary. If my willingness to say goodbye gives a dog like Eddie the life he deserves, then every goodbye is worth it.

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There are ramps leading to the couch and bed. Waterproof beds tucked into nearly every room. Multiple dog cameras keeping an eye on foster dogs while I’m away. Over the years, my home has slowly transformed into a place designed to help senior dogs live as comfortably, safely, and independently as possible.

After fostering more than 100 senior dogs, I’ve tried a lot of products. Some have been great. Others haven’t lived up to the hype. The three I’m sharing today have earned permanent spots in our home because I use them every single day, and I’d replace them without hesitation if they disappeared tomorrow.

Whether you’re welcoming your very first senior dog, helping your own dog navigate their golden years, or simply looking for ways to improve their quality of life, these are the splurge-worthy products I genuinely believe are worth the investment.

There are certainly less expensive alternatives in each of these categories, but these are the products I’ve found to be the best after years of daily use with my own dogs and more than 100 senior foster dogs. They’ve been tested by the toughest product reviewers I know, and they’ve passed with flying colors.

A quick note: none of these products are sponsored. These are simply items I've personally purchased and used for years with my own dogs and foster dogs. I may earn a small commission if you choose to shop through my links, which helps support my senior dog rescue work.

🛋️ DoggoRamps Bed & Couch Ramps -

Why they’re worth it

As my chihuahuas got older, I started noticing little moments of hesitation before they jumped on and off the bed. We first tried dog stairs in every room, but those eventually became challenging too. Switching to ramps was a complete game changer.

Why I love them

• Prevent jumping on aging joints

• Give dogs independence

• Sturdy and easy to clean

• We’ve used these with dozens of foster dogs

Best for
✔️ Senior dogs
✔️ Arthritis ✔️ Small breeds

Shop it → Doggoramps

🐾 Ease of Use: One of the biggest surprises has been how naturally most dogs take to these ramps. Even first-time users often figure them out within minutes.

🛏️ Lesure Pet Beds -

Why they’re worth it

This is the dog bed I purchase again and again because it's just that good. I have them in multiple sizes, colors, and styles throughout my house, and I send almost every foster dog home with one when they're adopted.

Why I love them

• Nearly every dog falls in love with it.

• The waterproof cover is perfect for senior dogs.

• They wash beautifully and hold up incredibly well over time.

• The colors and patterns are adorable and fit my home’s aesthetic.

• The matching waterproof blankets are a must-have too.

Best for
✔️ Any size or breed
✔️ Incontinent dogs
✔️ Dogs with anxiety. ✔️ Everyday naps and cozy nights

Shop it → Lesure Pet Beds

🐾 Foster Tested: If I could only recommend one dog bed, this would be it. It's been a favorite of countless foster dogs over the years.

🎥 Furbo 360° Dog Camera + Furbo Nanny

Why it’s worth it

This is one of the few products I genuinely use every single day, many times a day. Whether I’m checking on my own dogs while I’m out, keeping an eye on a foster dog recovering from surgery, or learning how a brand-new foster behaves when left alone for the first time, my Furbo gives me priceless peace of mind.

Why I love it

• I can check in on my dogs anytime, from anywhere.

• It helps me learn whether a new foster has separation anxiety or settles in just fine.

• Furbo Nanny sends smart alerts if a dog is barking, crying, vomiting, having an accident, or getting into something they shouldn’t.

• The 360° camera lets me see the entire room.

• Tossing treats through the app is always a fun bonus.

Best for
✔️ Any and all dogs
✔️ Especially great for adopted dogs or foster dogs
✔️ Anyone who wants extra peace of mind while they’re away

Shop it → Furbo 360° Dog Camera

Get up to 85% off your first Furbo 360° Camera - use my code FUR-WZ9FP2DE

📱 Used Daily: I check my Furbo multiple times every single day. If it stopped working tomorrow, I’d replace it immediately.

If you decide one of these products is a good fit for your pup and purchase it through one of my links, I may earn a small commission at no additional cost to you. I'm so grateful when you choose to shop through my links because those commissions help support the time and resources that go into fostering senior dogs, creating educational content, and continuing the lifesaving work I love. Thank you for supporting both me and the senior dogs who inspire everything I share.

I’ve had many foster dogs undergo surgery over the years. Everything from routine spays and neuters to multiple mass removals. But this was my first time caring for a dog after a bilateral enucleation.

Even though Eddie was already completely blind, there was something about seeing him without his eyes that hit me much harder than I expected. When I picked him up after surgery, he was curled up on a dog bed at Muttville looking so small, so fragile, and so lost. My heart absolutely broke.

But the moment I knelt down and held my hand in front of his nose, everything changed.

He recognized my scent instantly.

I scooped him up, kissed the top of his head, and I could feel him relax into me. It was such a powerful reminder that while Eddie couldn’t see me before surgery, he always knew I was there. The surgery didn’t take away his vision. It took away his pain.

His recovery has been going remarkably well. He finished his pain medication and antibiotics without any trouble, ate well throughout his recovery, and has been getting a little brighter every day. Next week he’ll head back to the vet to have his stitches removed, but already he seems so much more comfortable than he did before surgery.

It gives me so much purpose to care for dogs like Eddie during moments like this. He’s incredibly sweet, endlessly cuddly, and it truly feels like an honor to help him through this chapter of his life.

What amazes me most is how quickly he’s adapting. Even though he’s blind and has only been with us for about a week and a half, he’s already figured out how to make his way from the backyard, across the patio, and back into the house completely on his own. Every day he becomes a little more confident. I know that once he’s fully healed, he’ll become even more independent.

Before Eddie came to us, I couldn’t wrap my head around how a tiny, completely blind senior dog had survived on the streets. Now I don’t wonder anymore. He’s shown me exactly how. He’s resourceful, determined, and far more capable than most people would ever expect.

No matter how many dogs I foster, they continue to teach me something new. And no matter how many senior dogs arrive in heartbreaking condition, I never stop being amazed by their resilience.

Someone commented on one of my Instagram videos that Eddie couldn’t possibly have a good quality of life without eyes. I couldn’t disagree more.

Blindness is not a death sentence. And living without eyes does not mean a dog can’t experience joy, safety, love, adventure, comfort, or connection.

In fact, removing Eddie’s eyes will almost certainly give him a better quality of life because he no longer has to live with constant pain. Every confident step he takes around our home, every meal he happily devours, every cuddle he leans into reminds me that this surgery didn’t take something away from him. It gave something back.

He’s already showing us exactly who he is. Not a dog defined by what he’s lost, but one defined by his resilience.

I can’t wait for the family who adopts him to discover that for themselves.

So after just a few days off, I found myself back at Muttville Senior Dog Rescue in San Francisco, picking up my 112th foster dog.

Meet Limited Edition.

He’s a 13 year old, 6 pound Chihuahua mix who arrived at Muttville after being found as a stray in Contra Costa County. We don’t know how long he had been on his own. We don’t know where he came from. We only know the condition he was in when he arrived.

Limited Edition is completely blind and mostly deaf. His right eye has shrunken and is no longer functional after years of chronic disease. His left eye is blinded by a mature cataract. Both eyes are painful, and next week he’ll undergo surgery to have them removed so he can finally be comfortable.

His mouth tells a similar story. He has end stage dental disease, and it’s likely he’ll need all of his remaining teeth removed. The thought of how long he may have been living with that kind of chronic pain is heartbreaking.

Despite all of that, he is one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever met.

He carefully explores the house and yard, gently redirecting himself whenever he bumps into a chair, a wall, or a tree. But the moment he finds a lap, everything changes. His tiny tail starts wagging so hard his whole body wiggles.

He melts into your arms without hesitation. He doesn’t mind being picked up. He curls up as close as he possibly can and seems happiest when he’s touching someone. He already loves belly rubs, appears to enjoy the company of other dogs, and even with a painful mouth, he eagerly gobbles up every meal like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Within hours of coming home, he rolled onto his back, completely relaxed, asking for belly rubs. For a dog who has every reason not to trust the world, that kind of vulnerability feels like a gift.

I keep wondering how he ended up wandering the streets alone.

How did a tiny, blind, mostly deaf senior dog survive on his own?

Was he lost?

Was he abandoned?

Did someone love him but simply not have the resources to get him the medical care he so desperately needed?

I’ll probably never know.

But what I do know is that whatever happened before today, his story doesn’t end there.

Next week, I’ll be by his side through his dental surgery, the removal of both of his eyes, and every step of his recovery. I have no doubt that once he’s healed, he’ll feel better than he has in a very long time.

People often assume blindness means a poor quality of life, but dogs don’t experience the world the way we do. They adapt. They memorize their surroundings. They rely on their noses, their bodies, and the people they trust.

Limited Edition has already reminded me of that.

At 13 years old, blind, mostly deaf, and with significant medical needs, many dogs never make it out of a county shelter. Because Muttville said yes, he gets the chance to heal. And because I get to be his foster mom, I get to be the soft place he lands while he does.

For now, our job is simple: help him heal, show him he is safe, and remind him that even after everything he’s been through, the best chapter of his life may still be ahead of him.

Most of our foster dogs are adopted within three weeks or less. But Shay Shay was a slow burn.

She came to us after her guardian passed away, and it was clear she hadn’t experienced much of the world in her eight years. She was anxious, fearful of the car, and, most of all, afraid of men. Over the last two months, we worked patiently to help her overcome those fears. She watched our dogs closely and learned courage, confidence, and trust from them.

I’ll admit, I was heartbroken watching her get passed over again and again. Adoption event after adoption event, people chose other dogs. But now I realize it was never about being overlooked. It was about timing.

Shay Shay needed more time to come out of her shell. She needed the chance to become the happy, confident, charismatic little dog she was always meant to be.

And when she finally did, Mary walked into her life.

For every comment encouraging us to keep Shay Shay ourselves, I quietly believed there was someone out there who could give her a life we never could. And there was.

Mary is a longtime Muttville adopter who lives on a horse ranch in Petaluma. Shay Shay now has a senior yellow Lab sister named Maggie, another Muttville alum. She’ll spend her days surrounded by horses, curious barn cats, wide open space, and the kind of peaceful, predictable environment where I know she’ll thrive.

Even as I write this, knowing all of those wonderful things await her, fresh tears are falling onto my keyboard.

If you’ve read my previous essay, then you know how badly I wished she could stay.

Because of her fear of men, Shay Shay spent most of her time by my side, and we formed an incredibly deep bond. I would lie beside her on her dog bed, rubbing her belly and scratching her chest while she looked up at me with the sweetest little smile. If I stopped, she’d gently paw at my hand until I started again.

I’d kneel beside her, wrap my arms around her little body, and she’d softly lick my face. I’d scratch behind her ears, look into her soulful eyes, and see complete trust looking back at me.

She knew she was loved.

I love every foster dog as if they were my own. Even after more than 100 foster dogs, saying goodbye can still break my heart. Sometimes a dog like Shay Shay comes along and leaves permanent paw prints on it.

Even on adoption day, I didn’t think she would find her family.

When I dropped her off at Muttville HQ that morning, I didn’t even bring any of her favorite belongings because I was convinced I’d be picking her up the next day. Maybe that’s part of why this goodbye caught me so off guard.

Before I left, I gave her one last pep talk.

I told her to be brave. To be herself.

I hugged her tightly, covered her with kisses, and whispered goodbye.

I wasn’t there when the adoption happened, and maybe that’s how it was meant to be. I don’t know if I could have watched her walk away.

As I left HQ that morning, she tried to follow me.

That image will stay with me for a long time.

I don’t write this to scare anyone away from fostering. In fact, I write it for the opposite reason.

Everyone thinks fostering will be too hard because they’ll get too attached. And if you’re reading this, you might be thinking that if it’s still this painful for someone who’s fostered more than 100 dogs, then you could never do it.

But here’s what I’ve learned.

The heartbreak is temporary.

Today I’ll rest. I’ll cuddle my own dogs, celebrate with my husband over a nice dinner, and end the evening watching the Love Island finale. We’ll toast to Shay Shay and to all the work we put into helping her become the confident little dog who was finally ready for her forever family.

She found a home even better than I could have imagined for her.

A quiet ranch. A loving mom. A canine sister. Horses. Sunshine. Peace.

A place where she’ll spend the rest of her days safe, cherished, and deeply loved.

Tomorrow, I’ll dry my tears.

I’ll get back in the car, drive to Muttville, and save another life.

And the journey will begin again.

Even though we’d already been fostering 8-year-old Shay Shay for the past two months, I told our foster coordinator that if another dog needed somewhere to go for the weekend, we could help.

When she asked if I could take hospice bulldog Jazzberry Jam, there was only one answer.

I’d been admiring Jazzberry Jam, or Jazzy, ever since she arrived at Muttville a couple of weeks earlier. Her beautiful brindle coat caught my eye immediately, along with those adorable little bottom teeth that are almost always sticking out. I could tell she was special.

Then I read her story.

Jazzy had been surrendered to the East Bay SPCA in Oakland after her family lost their housing. But it was clear she’d endured much more than that. She had spent her life being bred and kept outdoors. Her ears had been cropped so severely that she developed chronic ear problems, including cauliflower ear and painful ear infections.

Surgery to remove her ear canals may have brought her some relief. But during the testing required before surgery, veterinarians discovered she had severe heart disease. Jazzy was born with severe pulmonic valve dysplasia, meaning part of her heart never developed normally. One side has to work much harder to pump blood, causing significant enlargement of her heart. Her condition is serious enough that she has been placed in Muttville’s hospice program.

That’s how she found her way from Oakland to Muttville.

One of the things I love most about Muttville is its incredible community of hospice adopters. There are people who intentionally seek out these dogs because they know they deserve love, comfort, and family no matter how much time they have left. Many of them adopt hospice dogs again and again, opening their homes to those who need them most.

Jazzy’s story is heartbreaking.

But somehow, none of that is what defines her.

The moment you meet her, all you notice is joy.

After everything she’s been through, after all the ways humans have failed her, she still believes every person she meets is worthy of love. She wants to be wherever you are. She leans into every cuddle. She greets complete strangers like old friends.

She doesn’t know she’s a hospice dog.

She only knows that today is a good day.

Although our time together was short, Jazzy left permanent paw prints on my heart.

The best part? By the time she left our house, she’d already received several adoption applications.

I don’t know which family will be lucky enough to bring her home, but I know whoever they are will quickly realize what I did. Beneath that brindle coat, those goofy little bottom teeth, and that endlessly wagging nubbin of a tail is a dog who has every reason not to trust the world, yet chooses love anyway.

I hope the rest of her life is filled with soft beds, cozy couches, and people who spoil her every single day. I hope she never has to sleep outside again. I hope she never has to do anything she doesn’t want to do again.

Most of all, I hope someone sees what I saw.

Because Jazzberry Jam is something truly special.

Then she told me she teaches yoga and that one of the concepts she talks about is impermanence. It isn’t a word I’ve ever used to describe fostering before, but it stayed with me long after our conversation ended.

I’ve always described fostering as temporary. Temporary foster dogs. Temporary heartbreak. Temporary chapters. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that impermanence carries a much deeper meaning.

Because fostering isn’t temporary in the way we usually think about it. It’s simply another reflection of the truth that nothing in life is permanent.

For some reason, people often ask me why I don’t just adopt my foster dogs, as if permanence is somehow the ultimate goal. But permanence is an illusion we spend so much of our lives chasing.

Our time on this earth is finite. The seasons change. Children grow up. Parents grow older. Friendships evolve. Careers take unexpected turns. The people and animals we love most will one day become memories. Every chapter of our lives eventually comes to an end, whether we’re ready for it or not.

And yet, fostering is where so many people draw the line.

“I could never do it,” they’ll tell me. “I’d get too attached.”

But isn’t that exactly what we’re meant to do?

We love knowing that one day we’ll have to say goodbye. We open our hearts despite the uncertainty of tomorrow. We choose connection over self-protection because we know that a life spent avoiding loss is also a life spent avoiding love.

Maybe that’s what fostering has been teaching me all along.

Not how to say goodbye, but how to embrace impermanence.

Every foster dog is a reminder that we don’t need something to last forever for it to matter. Some of the most meaningful relationships we’ll ever have are the ones that were never meant to be permanent.

And maybe that’s true far beyond fostering.

Honestly, that’s probably the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.

Because every video I make has one very specific goal: to help that dog find their family.

But there’s another goal, too.

I hope every video makes at least one person see senior rescue dogs a little differently.

Maybe someone who’s always wanted a puppy suddenly realizes an older dog might be exactly what they’re looking for.

Maybe someone who’s never thought about fostering decides to give it a try.

Maybe someone watches a senior dog sprint through the grass or play with a toy and realizes that “old” doesn’t mean “their best days are behind them.”

If I can help one dog find a home while changing one person’s mind about senior dogs, then I’ve done exactly what I set out to do.

The way I try to do that isn’t by making polished adoption commercials.

It’s by helping people see each dog the way I do.

Because rescue tells you where they came from.

I want people to see where they’re going.

Most adoption bios tell you a dog’s history. They tell you how old they are, where they came from, and sometimes the heartbreaking circumstances that brought them to rescue.

Those stories matter.

But they’re only the beginning.

Once a foster dog walks through my front door, their past slowly stops being the most interesting thing about them.

Instead, they become the dog who rolls upside down in the grass because it feels good. The one who finally picks up a toy after weeks of being too scared to play. The one who insists on stealing my spot on the couch the second I stand up.

They stop being a sad story.

They become themselves.

That’s the part I get to witness.

And that’s the part I want everyone else to see.

When I pick up my camera, I’m not thinking about algorithms or views.

I’m thinking, How do I introduce this dog to someone who’s never going to meet them?

Because the person scrolling doesn’t know that Shay Shay gently paws at me when she wants belly rubs.

They don’t know that Jeff loved burrowing under the blankets beside me every night.

They don’t know that Valley Girl had a mischievous streak that made me laugh every single day.

Those little moments will never fit in an adoption bio.

But they’re often the very things that make someone fall in love.

Every foster dog eventually leaves my house.

I can’t send their favorite spot on the couch home with them.

I can’t send the routines we created together.

I can’t send the quiet moments that made me fall in love with them.

But maybe I can share a video.

Maybe I can tell their story in a way that lets someone else fall in love, too.

And every time I read a comment that says, "I love Shay Shay," or "I wish Jeff Probst was mine," I know they saw exactly what I hoped they would.

Someone who has never met them already sees more than a rescue dog.

They see a dog worth loving.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes for someone to think,

“That’s my dog.”

In that month, she has transformed from a scared, anxious dog into a happy, loving, more confident one. She’s still afraid of my husband, but little by little she’s beginning to feel safer around him.

She has bonded with me most of all.

She sleeps beside me every night. She’s my little shadow. She curls up next to me on the couch, rolls onto her back so I can rub her belly, and if I stop, she gently paws at my hand to ask for more. When I lean down to kiss the top of her head, she answers with tiny little kisses on my face.

We have a special bond. The kind of trust that only comes from a dog who’s been let down by people before and is finally learning that she’s safe.

In so many ways, she fits perfectly into our family. She watches my senior dogs, Chloe and Stevie, and follows their lead. She sees the way they trust my husband, and little by little, she’s learning that she can trust him too.

I’ve documented every step of Shay Shay’s journey on social media. My followers watched her arrive, panting and pacing with fear. Now they see a dog who cuddles on the couch, asks for belly rubs, and finally looks at peace.

And, inevitably, the comments start rolling in.

“Keep her.”

“She’s already yours.”

“I hope you adopt her.”

Every time someone tells me to keep her, there’s a part of me that wonders...

Why don’t I?

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Despite my best efforts, Daydream and Shortbread went month after month with zero adoption interest. They were ridiculously small and objectively adorable, but tan chihuahuas can take a little longer to catch someone’s eye. So I decided to get creative.

I went to my local fabric store and picked out a few cute patterns. I borrowed my mom’s sewing machine, dusted off some very basic sewing skills with the help of a couple YouTube tutorials, and got to work making bandanas. I figured if I could make them look extra cute, maybe it would help them stand out.

I made a handful of different options and started posting photos. My following was tiny back then, but it didn’t matter. Other fosters in the Muttville community started reaching out, asking if I took orders. People asked if I had an Etsy shop.

And just like that, Hella Cool Dog Co was born.

That first year, things were steadily busy. I opened my Etsy shop in the summer of 2019, and many of my early customers were fellow Muttville fosters and adopters. I launched new collections for holidays, used my resident dogs and foster dogs as my models, and slowly built something that felt really special.

Then the pandemic hit.

Like so many people, I immediately wanted to help in any way I could. I had fabric. I had time. So I taught myself how to sew masks. I made hundreds, donating them to healthcare workers when PPE was scarce. And when mask wearing became the norm, I started selling them as well.

Through it all, we kept fostering. I kept sewing bandanas. But as the world slowed down, more and more people started their own side hustles. Suddenly, it felt like everyone had a bandana shop. My business began to slow, and despite trying to promote it on Instagram and TikTok, it became harder to reach new customers.

Over the years, things continued to taper off. Somewhere along the way, I stopped actively promoting the shop altogether. But it never really went away.

Every dog I foster still gets a carefully chosen bandana or bow tie when they arrive. And when they leave for their forever home, they take it with them, a small, tangible piece of their time here.

After we unexpectedly lost our dog Holly in October, I made the decision to pause my Etsy shop completely. I needed to focus on my mental health. The pressure of fulfilling orders, even something I loved, felt overwhelming while I was navigating grief, depression, and anxiety.

Recently, though, something shifted.

I shared the story of my business with my therapist, and she lit up in a way that surprised me. She praised my creativity and encouraged me to find ways to reconnect with it, whether that meant taking a class or simply returning to something I already loved.

Around the same time, I realized I had a whole new audience on Instagram and TikTok, people who had never heard this part of my story. So I took a leap and shared it.

I posted a simple video, a behind the scenes look at how I make a dog bandana. No hard sell. No push to buy. Just a small window into something I hadn’t shown in a long time.

The response caught me off guard.

Orders started coming in. Comments poured in from people who wanted to support me, who said they loved the products, who thought it was cool that alongside fostering and content creation, I was also running a small business.

And just like that, I found myself back at the sewing machine.

Cutting fabric. Sewing seams. Creating with my hands again.

It’s only been a few days, but I can already feel the shift. There’s something grounding about it. Something healing.

It feels really good to be back.

I may even hate it more than when people tell me I should keep my foster dog. At least that usually comes from a well-meaning place. People watch my videos and see the bond. They see a shy, timid dog walk into my home and slowly come out of their shell. They see how they settle in, how they connect with my dogs, how they inevitably become Dog Dad’s best friend.

I get it. The picture I share online makes it look like they’re already exactly where they belong. But social media is a highlight reel. It doesn’t show the hundred reasons why I can’t keep that dog, even if I love them.

But the “I could never foster” comment? That one I don’t understand.

There are plenty of valid reasons someone can’t foster. Maybe your resident dog is reactive. Maybe you don’t have the time or resources. Maybe your housing situation doesn’t allow it. Those are real, legitimate barriers.

But saying you couldn’t foster because it would be “too sad,” or because you’d “want to keep them all”… that’s different.

As someone who has fostered over 100 dogs, I can promise you this: you will not want to keep them all. I love every dog that comes through my home. I care for them like they’re mine. But most of them are not my dogs. Not every dog is the right fit for my life, my home, or my pack.

I’ve had fosters who didn’t get along with my dogs. Fosters who were afraid of my husband. Fosters with medical needs beyond what we could realistically take on. Loving a dog doesn’t automatically mean they belong with you forever.

And honestly, the idea that you’d keep every dog just doesn’t hold up. What does that look like, 100 dogs?

What people usually mean is this: it would be hard. It would be sad to say goodbye.

That part is true.

Fostering can be hard. Saying goodbye can hurt. But it also teaches you that you can do hard things.

And right now, that matters more than ever. Shelters and rescues are in crisis. Millions of animals enter shelters every year in the U.S. If even a small percentage of pet owners fostered just one animal annually, we could change the outcome for so many of them.

That’s why the “I could never foster” comment hits a nerve. Because the reality is, many people could. They just don’t want to face the hard part.

Instead of saying that to a foster, try something else.

Offer support. Give a compliment. Tell them you admire what they’re doing. Ask how you can help.

And if you truly can’t foster, support someone who does. Donate. Send supplies. Buy them a coffee. Fostering is a 24/7 commitment, and it can be exhausting in ways people don’t always see.

Caregiver burnout is real. Many of us take dogs back to back to back. When we burn out, we have to take a step back. And in an already overwhelmed system, those pauses can have real consequences.

So if you can’t foster, support the people who can.
And if you don’t know how, just ask.

In addition to fostering for Muttville Senior Dog Rescue, I also volunteer behind the scenes. I stay pretty connected to what’s happening across the rescue world, both through my work and through social media, where I follow many shelters and organizations throughout the state.

And to put it bluntly, we are in a crisis.

Shelters are full. Perfectly healthy dogs are being euthanized every single day simply because there is not enough space. Surrenders are at an all-time high. The reality is that many people can no longer afford to care for their pets. Others are being priced out of California entirely and are forced to move without their animals.

Rescues and shelters are doing everything they can, including waiving adoption fees, just to get dogs into safe and loving homes. Meanwhile, shelter staff are exhausted. Compassion fatigue is very real.

On a personal level, I feel it constantly. I receive messages every day from people asking for help surrendering a dog or trying to find a stray’s owner. I get tagged in countless posts about dogs who are out of time. It feels never-ending. And as someone who feels things deeply, it takes a toll.

I already do a lot. I foster. I donate. I network. I create and share video content every single day to help my foster dogs get adopted and to raise awareness, especially for senior dogs. I help onboard new fosters at Muttville. I assist with intake when needed. I show up to adoption events.

And still, it never feels like enough.

The truth is, I cannot do everything. None of us can. But all of us can do something.

That is why I always encourage people to get involved in whatever way they can. Foster just one dog a year. Volunteer a few hours a month. Skip one latte a week and donate that money instead. Small actions may not feel like much, but collectively, they matter. They save lives.

Yes, we need change on a much larger level. But until that happens, it is up to all of us to help carry the weight in whatever way we are able.

And here are a few simple ways to turn that feeling into action:

• Donate to Muttville

• Apply to foster with Muttville

• Adopt a Muttville dog

Muttville Senior Dog Rescue is currently hosting a “Smooch-a-Pooch” adoption event, where adoption fees are waived for qualified adopters through June 7, 2026. It is an incredible opportunity to give a senior dog the loving home they deserve.

It’s been almost two weeks since Shay Shay arrived at my home.

After her owner passed away, Shay Shay and five other dogs were left behind in a home in Bakersfield, CA. With no family able to take them in, they were split up between various rescues. Shay Shay and one other dog made their way to Muttville.

When she first arrived, she was incredibly scared. She spent her first day hiding under a sofa, too frightened to come out. When she got to my home, she paced and panted for hours.

It’s clear Shay Shay was deeply loved in her previous home. But it’s also apparent she may not have had much exposure to the outside world. Walking on a leash and wearing a harness feel completely foreign to her. She’s fearful of new people. Loud noises startle her.

And yet, over the past two weeks, I’ve watched her begin to transform.

She’s gone from a scared, anxious dog to one who is slowly finding her footing. She’s most comfortable with me. She lets me pet and cuddle her. She hops up onto the couch to sit beside me. She comes when I call her. When I get home, she greets me with a wagging tail and a little happy dance. At night, she sleeps soundly in her dog bed next to me.

She is, at her core, a deeply loving companion.

But progress isn’t linear.

While she’s grown comfortable with me, she is still very scared of my husband. He hasn’t been able to pet her yet. She will exist near him on her own terms, but if he moves toward her, she runs away. Most of the time, she keeps her distance.

We’ve been working on it. She’ll take treats from his hand, and he’s been offering high value snacks to help build trust. But for now, she’s just not there yet.

And that’s the reality of fostering.

We don’t know what these dogs have been through. We don’t know if she’s always been afraid of men, if it’s specific to certain people, or if she simply needs more time. While she opened up to me within a few days, trusting him is taking much longer.

Still, I’m amazed by how far she’s come.

She is going to make a wonderful companion for the right person. And understanding who she is in a home environment will only make her more adoptable.

So far, she hasn’t had much adoption interest. She’s received one application, but it wasn’t the right fit. The home had a young, overly social dog, and Shay Shay would do best with a calm, independent dog who is more indifferent than playful.

For now, we’ll keep going at her pace. We’ll continue building her confidence and helping her feel safe.

And when she finally decides my husband is trustworthy, it will absolutely be a day worth celebrating.

It’s still early. We often talk about the 3-3-3 rule with foster dogs. Three days to decompress, three weeks to settle in, and three months to fully feel secure. For dogs like Shay Shay, it can take even longer.

We haven’t even introduced her to some of our usual foster experiences yet. No pup cups. No senior dog “raves.”

But she’s getting there.

The progress she’s made already speaks to her resilience. And it gives me confidence that when the time comes, she’ll settle beautifully into her forever home.

Hopefully, that next move will be her last.

She deserves a soft life. A cozy bed. And people who will love her for the rest of her days.

Therapy and medication have helped me immensely. But beyond those things, it’s the senior dogs.

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It’s been a while since I’ve fostered a truly scared dog.

The night Shay Shay arrived, she was panting hard. For the first hour, she paced the entire house, circling from room to room, breathing heavily, eyes wide, her whole body trembling with fear. My husband and I did our best to ignore her, hoping she would eventually settle. When she finally stopped, she chose a spot as far away from us as possible. She laid down on the back doormat, facing us, eyes open, as if she might need to make a quick escape at any moment.

Eventually, she found her way to a soft dog bed. That bed has since become her safe place. The first night, she curled up there and stayed all night without making a sound. Quiet. Still. Watching.

Shay Shay’s story is a heartbreaking one. After her owner passed away, she and six other dogs were left behind in the home. No one in the family was able to keep them, so they posted a plea for help on social media. One kind stranger stepped in to advocate for them and reached out to Muttville Senior Dog Rescue. Muttville was able to take in the two seniors of the group, Shay Shay and one other dog.

So Shay Shay left the only home she likely ever knew, the person she must have loved deeply, and made the long trip to San Francisco. At just eight years old, she is now starting over in a world that feels completely unfamiliar and, at first, very scary.

She is especially afraid of my husband. When he walks toward her, she runs the other way. She won’t let him touch her. Even now, a few days in, he’s still waiting for his first chance to pet her.

But change is already happening.

It’s only been a couple of days, and she has improved so much. Her tail wags now. She comes up to me when she wants love. She rolls onto her back for belly rubs, something that would have felt impossible that first night. She gives me little kisses, as if to say thank you for being patient, for being gentle, for waiting for her.

She has even asked to come up on the bed.

She loves food, clearly a girl who was very loved and maybe a little spoiled. She could stand to lose a few pounds, but underneath it all is an incredibly sweet, affectionate dog who just needs a little help building her confidence.

And she’s not doing it alone. My pack is already showing her the way.

For now, my only goal is simple. I want her to feel safe. I want her to feel loved.

And when the time comes, I hope her previous owner can rest easy, knowing that Shay Shay’s next chapter will be a gentle one.